


Sure, everything is ending, but not yet

by scrobbles



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, a bunch of other yogs, and mochi being best floof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-16 05:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 70,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrobbles/pseuds/scrobbles
Summary: They've worked hard to build a community. In a world where the dead now walk the earth, they've managed to find a home. But when a threat worse than the dead comes along, Smith and Ross have to put their trust in a newcomer – a stranger who's more a mystery than the solution – if they're going to have a chance at keeping their found family safe.As long as they have each other they'll be okay, it's what's kept them alive so far; but with the change in circumstance forcing secrets, lies, and a fuckton of buried pain out into the open, it's almost impossible to stop everything from completely falling apart.
Relationships: Ross Hornby/Alex Smith/Chris Trott
Comments: 31
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... this was something I half wrote about three years ago and never got round to finishing. But now I'm older (and maybe a tiny bit better at writing lul) I thought why the hell not? Might as well try and make something out of it instead of leaving it sitting there on my hard drive. Even if going through to re-write everything and seeing how I used to write is a bit cringey... XD
> 
> No schedule for the updates, though the second chapter shouldn't be too long seeing as it's almost complete.

_You always remember your first kill._

_Smith sure remembers his, in all its gory detail – the fear, that feral, guttural growl of a man that no longer saw him as a fellow human being. Now he was prey. To kill. He had to survive. Directly into the eye, with a knife, even someone with no fighting experience could do it._

_He remembers the rotten blood that spewed from the socket, and how the jaw instantly locked, yellow teeth bared like an animal, and above all how nothing had changed, because though he didn’t quite understand why the dead suddenly walked the streets and feasted on those they would have once called friend, family, he knew that they were, in fact, dead, and that to kill them in that sense was little more than removing the battery from his phone, and he had to, so he killed._

_He remembers how he froze, after, watching the thing fall limply to the floor. It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen, far from it, but it was the first by his hands, and something about that was strange – unreal – and despite how relieved he’d felt he couldn’t stop his staring. That was what made Ross step forward, clammy hands grabbing his own hard enough to leave a mark - “Smith, we’ve gotta go, Smith! It’s okay, he's not gonna hurt us. You saved me, you fucking saved me, but we’ve gotta go. I can hear more coming, we need to go, now. C’mon, please, let’s go, I’m not leaving you behind, God dammit –”_

“Maybe we should’ve brought the girls with us,” Smith says.

They’re searching the basement of the large farmhouse. It’s pretty chilly down here even with the hot American summer sun shining on outside, but the old concrete walls have done well at preserving not only the temperature, but also keeping safe a fuck-ton of rations, lining the shelves invitingly, enough to last their group a month if needed. Like the animals, the assumed previous owners had already been dead when they arrived, two hanging bodies greeting them when they searched the upstairs. The only biters they’d encountered had been ambling around outside.

For the time being, with one last root around to make sure they haven’t overlooked anything vital, they pack as much as they can into their backpacks – two large hiking ones.

Ross, beside him as they walk down the porch steps, smiles easily like they’re just two guys taking a relaxing stroll during their vacation. His barbed wire bat dangles loosely in his hand, his gait lazy and posture at ease. In this sunny weather Smith can almost imagine they’re back in Australia, or Italy, on one of their holidays before the whole world went to shit.

“They’re gonna love us tonight,” he grins.

“Maybe. Though knowing our luck recently, Kim will have somehow magicked up a dozen antibiotics out of nowhere… reckon we’ll see any trouble on the way back?”

It’s barely worth asking. Biter activity had steadily been decreasing ever since the beginning of the year, to the point where there were days they wouldn’t catch sight of a single living one, more often running into the corpses of those long killed off now left for the plants and trees to feed on. Such was the new circle of life. He can tell Ross is even more laidback than usual, as is his response of a simple shrug and hum.

Now, he reaches out and takes Ross’ hand, thumb rubbing gentle circles over his skin. Only Ross’ fingers are bare, same as Smith – even with decreased activity they weren’t confident enough to head out without gear on. Ross responds with a light squeeze of his own, and doesn’t pull away.

“Lewis was wondering if now’s the time to consider exploring further,” Smith continues. “Considering –”

“Considering it’s been five years,” Ross cuts in, voice calm, “six altogether, now.”

“Who knows what might be waiting for us out there?” Smith replies, a bit hesitantly, and looks down at their tangled hands when Ross doesn’t reply. “We can’t stay hidden forever.”

Ross slips his hand out of Smith’s hold. He lets out a short, high pitched whistle, calling for the horses they’d left grazing by the nearby stream. He’s silent, and Smith’s shoulders sag with worry.

Eight years now. Eight years of being officially together. And five years worth of Smith feeling far too helpless in the face of his boyfriend’s "ignorance is bliss” attitude when it came to the rest of the world, unsure about the right thing to say, or do, knowing no words can make everything happy and safe.

It can make him feel fucking useless – but having the others helps, he’s sure of it, because even when Ross is at his most ignorant they were there with a comforting touch and an understanding ear. After a moment he takes a deep breath, and turns to see Ross leading the horses to him with a big smile. Smith stares back into the other man’s clear blue eyes, heart softening despite himself at how fucking _cheerful_ and warm Ross always was. It can almost always make Smith feel joy, too – a zombie apocalypse hasn’t changed the effect Ross’ smile has on him – a shining speck of gold amongst so much red and black. It makes him think that things will be okay in the end. He just wishes Ross could finally learn to accept and deal with just how shit things probably were outside of the relatively safe bubble they’d formed for themselves. Believing anything else was deliberately lying to yourself.

“Besides,” Ross says, “we could do with finding a couple more boiks.”

Smith’s eyes roll nearly back into his head.

“God,” he groans, “I’m so fucking allergic to horses.”

Ross laughs and leaps with ease onto his bay mare, Motley, friendly and reliable, much like her rider in that respect. He gives her a pat on the neck and a scratch behind the ear, and she nods her head happily.

Horses… of all the forms of transport to survive, it had to be ones that would make his life the most difficult.

Nevertheless, he gets onto his own horse, Zeus. A black stallion, huge and stubborn, again not too dissimilar to his rider, who he has never seemed to show a particular love for – he seems to be the easiest on Smith’s chest, however, so for now he’s stuck with the bastard.

“Give me a few more years and I’ll have re-invented the electric car,” he grumbles. “I bet Elon Musk isn’t having to deal with trotting around the countryside like it’s the 1600’s, he’s probably sipping on a space margarita millions of lightyears away, laughing at us peasants. Probably has a couple of electric horses just for show. I bet it’s the most pretentious planet in the Universe. I bet they charge you for fucking oxygen, the pricks.”

Ross laughs loudly, his eyes scrunching up, and Smith’s lips twitch.

“I can’t believe we’re gonna spend the rest of our lives farming,” he sighs. “As a kid that’s all I wanted to get away from.”

“It’s not all that bad,” Ross counters. “It’s all we need to live.”

“It’s not all _I_ need,” Smith snaps – it’s completely unintentional and he feels bad straightaway, but it doesn’t keep the annoyance he feels at bay, a kind of pent up frustration that always wormed it’s way out after a while. These emotions that rise to the surface; a particular bitterness, bubbling up, that makes him hate himself for feeling that way. “Don’t get me wrong about this. I’m forever thankful we found Lewis and the gang – they saved our lives. But sometimes – if things had gone differently, if we could have kept on going, who knows what we could achieve or discover–”

“I think everybody is just trying to live their life as good as they can,” Ross points out. “Whoever they are, they’ll have good people with them like us. Having good people in your life means it’s a life worth living. We have that here –”

“So what, we’re not supposed to go looking for more?” Smith feels Zeus stomp his foot angrily under the sudden tenseness of his rider. “You were there with me at Redwood, Ross – you saw how many great minds were working together trying to come up with solutions.”

“Can we not talk about that now?” Ross says, voice tight. “Right now, we’ve got a lot more food than we had earlier, and that means today was a good day. It’s fucking gorgeous weather and barely any biters around. And anyway,” he adds, a rare darkness crossing his face, “Redwood was a long time ago. Things were a lot newer – time passed strangely there for us, we don’t really remember a lot of it cause now it’s just one big blur of uncertainty. Even if we were to have continued travelling like I know you’ve thought about, it wasn’t like we were one of these great minds you speak of, we wouldn’t know where or what to start looking for.”

He has a point, Smith thinks grudgingly. Ross might be naive but he’s far from stupid, and Smith’s known him long enough to trust he spoke from the heart. But he doesn’t have to always like it, and he watches the other man a few moments longer before finally sighing and kicking Zeus into action.

“Alright,” he agrees, “Let’s see if we can get back first so we can use up all the hot shower water.”

Ross meets his pace and shoots him a look of relief. Smith meets his eyes again, and just the sight of Ross’s small smile makes his heart go all soft once more.

“Together?” Ross says with a smirk and a raised brow, before a glint of something passes through his eyes, and he quietly adds, “I really am happy, Smith. While we’re here, everything’ll be fine – change doesn’t always mean better.”

“Okay,” Smith says softly, letting it go for now, and leans over to kiss him, a brief, quick brush of lips. It’s a moment of resignation on his part yet again by allowing Ross to nudge them out of the topic he so desperately hated, thinking about the bigger picture, accepting the true reality of their new world, that nightmares now walked freely in daylight, and pretending any different was a huge injustice to yourself – but, again, he leaves it because here, now, too, he’s happy, kissing the man he loves more than anyone else in the world. This countryside is home, the others are family, the constant fight to survive an endless rush of adrenaline, but Ross… Ross is _his_ home. _Ross was there before_ – he’s the reason Smith had kept going that first year, he knows, he had to be strong for Ross and keep them alive and keep them _together_. That’s what it comes down to, really. _We don’t need anyone. As long as we have each other we’re home. And he’s the only thing stopping you from heading out to seek those answers. Shit, you’d leave tonight if he gave you the nod. But he’s not going to do that anytime soon._

_Just your fucking luck you fell in love._

* * *

Sips is still up in the watchtower when they return just as the sun begins to turn from bright yellow to the orange-pink the evenings brought. Ross’ reaction as they get near is almost childlike, an excited wave of arms and laughter that bubbles up in his chest and spills out into a high-pitched squeal of joy, infectious, pushing out from his very core.

Sips is everything Smith likes in a man. He’s leaning forward on the wall but straightens up as soon as he sees them, returning Ross’ manic greeting with a wolfish howl – throws a handful of obscenities their way, and shouts at Ravs to open the main gate, and Smith can’t help but grin.

There is a history to this 16th-century colonial house. But whatever it is has long since been forgotten; died off with whoever originally owned the place. For Smith and Ross, the house and the walled off surrounding grounds have been home for the past five years, when Sips and their leader had taken them in. Lewis is not what you would call a conventional leader – small, sarcastic, unassuming. But he’s been smart enough to keep them alive this long, Smith thinks he can’t be all that bad at it. His right hand man, Sips, with his crossbow who’ll put a bolt through the head of any biter unlucky to wander within fifty yards; Kim who uses her quick reflexes as a weapon, who Smith has seen take on ten biters by herself armed only with a hunting knife, a tiny ball of unmeasurable energy; Tom, boring, boring, glasses, beard, _blah blah blah…_ but seriously, arguably the smartest out of them, his quick thinking having got them out of countless scrapes; Bouphe and Lydia, small and tall, almost always together, if the apocalypse could have a power couple it’d be those two. Between the six of them, and Ross and Smith, they make up their groups main ranger party. They’re the ones who’ll go on supply runs and exploration of new areas – a rag-tag group if ever you saw one. _Seven Brits and a Canadian in America, sounds like a bad B-movie,_ Smith thinks.

The other’s of their group are no less fighters than them, but their duties generally keep them closer to the walls. Hulmes, Nina, Duncan, Ravs – their main priority is maintenance, anything to do with the upkeep of the place, most importantly keeping the walls strong and sturdy; Leo, Simon, Ben, HarryBarryHarryBarry – tending to the animals, crops, keeping people fed, making sure everyone is happy; and finally Craig – who flits between whatever work is needed most but is their main guy when it comes to medical knowledge. Hell, he’d saved Smith’s life all those years ago. The sight of everyone getting along with their various tasks makes Smith think of the farmhouse they’ve just returned from, of the couple hanging together in one final moment of unity. What differences there were inside this group to give them the will to fight on, after so many had died, how was it these people were still finding some form of normality amidst the chaos. It’s there in Sips’ warm, crinkled eyes and Ravs’ firm hand on his shoulder – a welcome back – glad you didn’t die on your shopping trip. He would certainly miss it, Smith knows without a doubt that leaving this would be beyond hard and he understands why no one else wants to venture out from their safe-zone. But it doesn’t stop him dreaming.

They’re tying up their horses when their famed leader appears.

“There you are! I was starting to think you two might’ve moved house,” Lewis calls out, dryly. Smith’s eyes roll. “Here, come and see what Tom and Kim brought back – they got back ages ago, unlike you two they don’t waste time. Always wasting time together doing… whatever you two like to get up to.”

“Bit fucking presumptuous of you,” Smith replies in mock offence, as he gives Lewis a playful shove before sauntering behind him. A figure suddenly jogs up to Smith’s side, and he glances to see Hulmes looking up grinning like a mad man. _The fuck is he looking at_ – come to think of it most the group has now formed into a mini precession behind them.

Fucking suspicious – Kim with an equally wide smile is just inside the main door, and in the shadowy room to her right he can hear excited voices, and he has never mistrusted these assholes as much as he does in this moment. But follow Lewis he does, squinting in the dim light, inspecting the faces of Leo and Simon as they turn to face him and, after a moments look at each other, step aside. And he sees the source of everyone’s sudden madness, and he lets out an audible groan, and can he not catch a fucking _break_? Nice to see his anticipated annoyance has put everyone in such high spirits.

“Jesus Christ. What the fuck are we supposed to do with that thing?” he groans.

He doesn’t receive an answer from the thing, other than a wide eyed gaze, two black eyes and a black nose encased in a cloud of snowy white fur that regards Smith with an almost interest. An absurdly fluffy white dog – yet another thing he can enjoy being allergic to.

“We found her caught up in some barbed wire,” Kim tells him. “We were heading a bit further down the North Road, seeing if there were any other gas stations or stores down that way. Would’a missed her were it not for her colour – poor little thing was just stuck there in silence. And seeing as we’re not a heartless bastard like you, Smith, we freed her and enticed her to follows us with snacks, not that she needed much convincing, she must’ve been around humans at least some point in her life.”

Everyone’s clearly enamoured with the dog cloud. She’s made herself quite at home already, sitting comfortably in the centre of a cushion. 

“Aww,” Ross is laughing, “she’s the exact opposite to the other two.”

The other two being Diesel and Tito – an Alsatian and a Rottweiler who more than pulled their weight within the group, most likely ex-service dogs of some kind, they were that well-trained and obedient, and yeah, nothing at all like this princess and her unblinking gaze that was starting to unnerve him. The most help this dog could provide was as a distraction snack.

Still. Every single fucking person in the room won’t shut up about how cute she is, and how this is the best thing that’s happened in ages. Like legit, the whole group mood is one of excitement and pure delight, Ross included, who looks to Smith with dancing eyes. Smith responds with a grunt – purposefully not putting in enough effort to form a single syllable, like, ‘ _Fine’,_ or _‘Okay’,_ or _‘Alright’._ But, and he sees Ross can read it in his face, the answer is really, ‘ _If she makes you happy, then I guess I’m happy with the little shit, too.’_

He leaves Ross so the man can spend more time getting know their newest member, meeting up with Harry to hand over everything they’d got from the day’s search. They crack a few jokes about the days unexpected turn of events. It’s nice – being with Harry is kind of like being with Ross but without the whole being in a long term relationship part and the man is just the right amount of crazy to keep Smith on his toes, always able to find something entertaining to speak of no matter how dreary the day.

Oh, the days!

He thinks that’s what it is, it’s how all the days can be so very the same, every day where nothing much happens adding to the itch that is to explore beyond safety. As scary as being in Redwood had been – was _still_ scary for Ross, since the younger man always avoids discussing it at all costs – at least it had been exciting and interesting and given him hope that shit might get better one day. That’s the lasting impression he had got from the place, at least, and combined with all the days he’s spent in the last few months – get up, work, eat, sleep, get up, go out, kill a biter or two, come back, eat, sleep – he’s come to one distinct conclusion.

He is clearly not a man made for this monotonous lifestyle.

The only part he finds he gets real enjoyment out of is the camaraderie shared by everyone. Like that night, he’s calling Lewis a scrawny, starving Lebanese child, and the other man is calling him a homeless Ed Sheeran. Let alone the joy he gets from spending time with the others who aren’t sarcastic little shits. The feeling he gets from joking with Lydia and Bouphe, reminiscing with Craig and Hulmes, debating with Tom and Ravs, making up weird games with Simon and Sips. If Smith’s hatred of daily apocalypse life is hot, the idea of losing these connections forever is cold, just thinking of it leaves him with a freezing and unfeeling sensation.

Smith sits next to Ross, and they enjoy a family meal together, on logs circling a fire, summer camp style. They’re all of a similar age, and by some random hand of fate all of them bar Sips are British, only visiting the US for work or vacations, somehow beating all the odds and finding each other, now all stuck in a land very unlike the ones they’d grown up in. He’s always got on with everyone from day one, feels like they would have been good friends before, not just because they were together by necessity, people he would have gone to the pub with for a drink and a laugh or invited over to play video games or D&D.

“You’re not vegan, are you?” Ross is asking the cloud dog. “C’mon, have some. It’s good chicken.”

“I doubt she’s fucking vegan, Ross.”

“I dunno. She’s not eating. I’ve never known a dog to not eat chicken before.” Ross scratches a hand through the white fur and frowns. “You think she’s in mourning?”

“That’s actually not a stupid thought,” Tom comments, when a few of the others had started sniggering. “It’s like those stories – dogs that won’t leave their owners sides after they’ve died, or hang out by their graves and shit – could be she was with her owner until recently, isn’t that what you said Craig. She’s skinny – but not enough that she’s been starving too long, and I can’t imagine by the looks of her that she’s much of a hunter.”

“Good. So we’ve got a grieving pup on our hands. Who wants to handle the therapy? I vote not me.”

“Nice to see you’re carrying on the tradition of getting all surviving animals to dislike you.”

“That’s not true, I’ve got no problem with lizards,” Smith argues, and scowls at Tom. “Or birds, or fish, or ants.”

“Ah yes ants,” Lydia cuts in. “Nature’s most cuddly of creatures. Look, you don’t think she’s gonna be of any use? Think of her as a morale booster – little cloud, chief of happiness. There, that’s her official job title now, no more arguments.”

“Yeah,” Bouphe adds, laughing, “and it’s the little ones you gotta watch out for. You better be careful, Smith, or she’ll be nipping your ankles right off.”

Something stirs in Smith at that – a not quite memory; lips pouring blood, cries and wails and screams, bile in the back of his throat, a clawing at his arm – he shoves it away, annoyed at himself. _Long ago_ – _not important, don’t think about it. Some things are best left in the past._

“You guys are just prejudiced against people with ginger beards,” he says eloquently, and just like that the inkling of a memory is gone, replaced by the laughs of his friends.

Lewis grins. “If that were true, we’d all hate Simon. And everyone loves Simon! Admit it Smith, you’re like marmite, and no one here likes marmite.”

“I like marmite,” Ross murmurs in his ear, and then they’re both laughing, the sound echoing throughout the grounds; Yogs is a dumb name for a community. It had been a dumb name when Smith had first heard it and it only grew dumber every time someone mentioned it, but it was a bit late to come up with something new now, so Yogs, or Ye Olde Goon Squad it was. It was original, he’ll give it that, if any bastards out there also have claim to that name he’ll eat his left big toe.

“I think, in light of what Ross and Smith found today, it might be… prudent for us to consider travelling further South that way. If there’s more farmland that direction we could be in for some decent hauls, places left relatively untouched. That’s what I think, at least,” Lewis adds, and Smith and Ross glance at one another.

“It’s what we were thinking too,” Smith says.

There are other echoes of agreement and Lewis smiles, but before he can continue there’s a loud shout from Duncan. As they all spring to attention, Smith can tell straight away that it’s a horde coming to fuck with them. He’s pretty sure that he can hear the groans in the air now, and holy shit, it’s about time.

_Lewis better not take this as a sign to postpone his plan_ , he thinks grimly.

“Ross, Tom, girls, with me,” Sips orders, and there’s no time wasted, Ross darting away from his side to grab the riot gear, while Lewis slaps Smith on the shoulder and jerks his head for him to follow. Smith’s eyes drift to those heading out for a moment, just to try and catch Ross’ eye – but he’s staring straight ahead, looking by all accounts like a soldier ready to march into battle, and the image is completed when the gates open and Ross is leading the charge alongside Sips. He glances away a moment later, hating these times when Lewis calls upon him to assist from the walls instead of getting involved down below, doesn’t like leaving Ross on his own. There’s something too uncomfortably vulnerable about it, seeing him there.

“Help me and Duncan,” Lewis says, already grabbing a crossbow and positioning himself next to the blond. Smith glances over the wall, eyes widening at the number of biters stumbling their way – it’s been, for want of a better word, dead out there for so long and these lot appeared to have come from nowhere.

Pushing all of those thoughts aside for now, he does what he’s told and reaches for the night vision binoculars. He gets up in between the two men and begins to scan the area. Calls out directions, where the threat is greatest, eyes everywhere – shouts a warning down to Ravs about a group of four big ones approaching behind him, gives corrections when the explosive bolts Lewis and Duncan are firing go a little wide – working together – that familiar electrifying buzz in his stomach again, as they protect the home they’ve built.

They fight, and they fight, and they fight, and they –

“You coming back any time soon?” he calls out. Ross is still outside the walls, dragging the biter bodies into a pile.

“They’re ruining our driveway,” Ross calls back, and doesn’t say anything else, just lowers his head and gets back to work heaving the rotten corpse away. He doesn’t so much as look at Smith. It’s a bizarre exchange, but one Smith has kind of grown used to after a fight like this.

_Probably gonna be a restless night for the both of us,_ he thinks, rather selfishly. A moment later, Lewis is calling out for him.

“I think we can safely say that it’s more than likely we’re gonna have more hit us, it’s how it’s always been in the past,” he continues, as Smith descends the ladder on the inside wall. “And if we’re learning from our past encounters the hordes are only gonna get bigger, which is worrying, cause that was a pretty fucking big one. We need to prepare ourselves for the worst, and see if there’s any changes we can make to better take them down.”

“In that, we’re in agreement,” Smith says, and Lewis nods.

“You and Tom should get together,” Lewis adds, and Smith can’t quite stifle his snort. Brilliant Tom might very well be but that doesn’t mean he’s the easiest to work with when it comes to planning stuff, and Lewis knows this.

_Give it a go_ , his calm eyes seem to say. He must know how Smith’s been itching to plot more supply runs, his fixation with homemade weaponry – but his eagerness in the past has always been overshadowed by Tom’s greater experience, and he can’t lie and say he isn’t a little bitter about it, so he stays quiet. Still – Lewis must notice the look on his face, because he gives an understanding smile.

“If anyone’s gonna get Tom to consider other suggestions, it’s you,” he says. “We’ve all read that Anarchists Cookbook of his but you’re the only one I think who understands the stuff. And for Tom’s sake, we need someone else competent enough to give him a hand from time to time. Having two grenade building maniacs is better than one, I think.”

“Oh I’m sure I can create something way cooler than a grenade,” Smith grins. “Does that mean I’m part of the inner circle now?”

“Will you shut up about this stupid inner circle, it’s not a thing, it never has been a thing, and it never will be a thing,” Lewis groans, bumping his shoulder on purpose.

Perhaps officially it’s never been a thing; it’s been adamant from day one that if there was one thing they weren’t going to lose it was democracy. Lewis might have a final say in certain things but everyone will have a say in the matter and all opinions will be heard, but that doesn’t mean some opinions don’t hold a little more weight than others. For example, Lewis, Sips, Tom, and Kim. Best leader, best hunter, best mind, best fighter. Inner circle.

“Anyway, we can talk more on it tomorrow,” Lewis says. “I would say for you to keep first watch tonight but your boy put in a hell of a shift. Go and get him to come back in – those things aren’t gonna go anywhere and I’m not settling, not if I know he’s still out there working and making the rest of us look bad, and not to mention the smell if he goes and burns them all now.”

“Okay, but don’t forget you said we’d talk tomorrow,” Smith says.

“I won’t, I’m the one who fucking brought it up, I haven’t gone senile just yet!” Lewis exclaims, and stalks off muttering under his breath. It’s a very Lewis move. Quintessentially Lewis. One moment he’s serious and calm and wise; the next he’s back to being a sarcastic little shit.

Smith finds Ross still moving the bodies. His face is stained red on one side with blood, and Smith knows he has to be extremely tired after fighting for so long. Moments like this remind Smith he’s no longer the young man who’d shy away from any form of violence – five years of this lifestyle has turned him into one hell of a fighter, not to mention he’s one of the biggest guys in the group. It can also be said that he’s just a natural. That he’s a fucking good fighter. Smith’s been trying to get him to show him how exactly he learned to fight so well but it’s impossible. It’s almost like it comes easy to him.

“Lewis said he doesn’t want you burning them now cause of the smell, so don’t you think we might as well get some sleep?” he says, but he already knows the other man will say no, and tries not to think about how a part of him is relieved to see this side of Ross, proof that the man knows, knows, _knows_ in his heart that no matter how hard they try to ignore it the outside world will always get to them somehow, one way or another – even out here in the middle of nowhere – be it biters or other humans. It was only a matter of time. From Smith’s point of view, he’d much rather be the one doing the exploring than the one waiting to be found.

Unfortunate as it is, they can’t live the happy life Ross wants them to have by staying here forever.

“I’m almost done,” Ross replies, gesturing to the remaining few. “Help me drag those lot over and I’ll come in. Me doing this now will save us work in the morning when we’re all sore and can’t be arsed to get up. There’s method in my madness, trust me – Smith, they used to pile them up around Redwood. Some people thought it would keep other biters away, for a while at least, having them all together makes a more concentrated smell. Makes other biters that might be in the area think the place is more crowded than it is, like some weird smell-echolocation. Course, it was just a theory… anyway, like I said, saves people a job in the morning.”

Smith nods silently, and helps Ross move the last few, eyes lingering on him. At times, it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking – but his lips are pressed together and if Smith had to guess, he’d say the other man is flicking through more memories of Redwood. He doesn’t know why – Ross had briefly mentioned it before, that he finds himself thinking of their first community a lot after a big fight. Smith doesn’t say it now, but he has no idea what Ross is talking about – about the biters, wonders how he can recall so little of their time there, yet also on occasion bring up things so specific that Smith has absolutely no memory of.

“You coming, Smith?” Ross asks, and Smith jerks back to attention.

“Oh yeah… right,” Smith says, the younger man smiling lazily, and he laughs it off. “I like my men a little mad, keeps things interesting. Especially when they bash in biter heads as well as you do, you fucking animal. I swear every time I see you out there you go even crazier than the last.”

He looks at Ross, who just smiles lopsidedly again. Now – it’s the middle of the night and they need to rest up ready for tomorrow, Smith needs to plan how he’s gonna get his points across with Tom.

“Bedtime?” Ross asks, as they shut the gates behind them.

“Uh-huh, but wash off first, I don’t want bloody sheets like last time,” Smith announces. “Next time, I’m gonna go out – and you can have a go firing explosives at the bastards.”

“If that’s the case, I’m gonna need you to give me another crash course on them. Sound alright with you?”

“If it’s fine with Lewis, sure,” Smith says, and Ross looks very pleased.

“It’s been a much busier day than I was expecting,” Ross adds, turning to him. “Finding all that food, getting a new doggo, then having to deal with that fucking horde.”

“What were you expecting then? Sunbathing and skipping through fields of flowers?”

It’s Tom’s voice that pipes up, and Smith nearly jumps out of his skin. The man’s sitting in a chair by the doorway, almost completely hidden in the shadows. Those dumb dark glasses that he picked up a few months ago fixed upon his face. _I mean really? Wearing them in the dark like some dumb college hipster?_ He’s looking at Ross.

“The fuck!” Smith exclaims. Tom ignores him.

“Not turned in yet?” Ross asks.

“Nah, I’m taking second watch,” Tom says, and actually removes said glasses for once. “If I’m going to be up in four hours I might as well stay up, it would take me an age to sleep anyway, too much adrenaline.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Ross nods. There’s a moment’s silence between them and Smith thinks, no, he _sees_ Tom’s gaze flicker to him strangely for a second. The last thing he wants is another unprovoked snide remark from the other man. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the guy, and he thinks he’s brilliant, but he can be a real asshole sometimes, and more often than not the jabs seem to be pointed at Smith.

The moment passes and Tom focuses on Ross again, and a small smile graces his face, his shoulders relaxing.

“You’re an amazing fighter, Ross.” His voice is soft, barely audible, and Smith notices the way Ross’ whole body stills briefly at the words. “We’d be a lot worse off without you. I just wanted to… don’t take any unnecessary risks and you’ll be fine, okay? It would be very unfortunate if… well… nevermind, know I’ve _always_ got your back, no matter what.”

Ross is quiet for a bit, then breathes in sharply and nods again. “Thanks, Tom. Same for you.”

“Alright, alright, can we go to bed already?” Smith complains, and walks forward, tugging Ross on his arm. “Night, Tom – hope we can have a nice chat tomorrow – can’t _wait!_ You better not use staying up all night as a fucking excuse to back out of it.”

“Oh… yeah,” Tom mumbles, distractedly. “Lewis owes me one for that.”

Something stiffens minutely in Smith’s shoulders, but he shakes it off and continues forward, pulling Ross along with him.

“He can be really fucking weird sometimes,” he comments once they’re out of earshot, “That stuff he was saying then. Like you don’t know what you’re doing. Unnecessary risks… like what? And then he acts like I’m gonna be some sort of burden, when in fact I’m the one doing _him_ the favour cause I’m the only one who can help _and_ put up with his bullshit.”

“Give it a rest,” Ross murmurs. “He’s tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. Things’ll seem clearer in the morning.”

“Yeah… well, if that’s the case he’s gonna be even worse if he’s planning on staying out there all night. Not a very good plan if we’re gonna keep getting more hordes.”

Ross has stiffened now, paused with his hand on their door, head down.

“We all deal with shit in different ways, let him be,” he says quietly.

“Ohhh, you’re too nice all the fucking time!” Smith groans, throwing his arms up dramatically, barging his way past Ross, bellyflopping straight onto the bed – it felt so fucking _good_. “What did I tell you about being nice? Only in moderation, otherwise I’ll look like even more of a twat.”

“My apologies,” Ross replies, smile in his voice. “Though I’ll have you know I can be very, very naughty when I want to be.”

Smith groans loudly into the mattress. “Ughhhh, my God, don’t talk dirty to me. Never again. Please.”

Ross pounces on him, and starts poking mercilessly at his side.

“Ross! Wh- what did I say about the – the sheets! You bastard!” He manages to cry out between breathless laughs, kicking futilely. “This isn’t sleeping at all!”

Ross starts cackling like a hyena, and scoots off him a little. His lips are stretched wide. They’re stained with blood in the corner and Smith is unsure if he finds that hot or disgusting.

“Wash your fucking face,” he says, and gives the man a final kick off the bed. “No wonder you and Tom suck each other off so much, you’re both lunatics.”

Ross laughs again. He makes for their bathroom, splashes around for a bit, and Smith is rather damn pleased that it doesn’t take long for him to return – blood and grime free thankfully.

“So,” he says, eyebrow raised. “Are you cleaning up?”

“Nah,” Smith says, after a pause, before rolling over and shutting his eyes. “Too tired… Night!”

His fake snoring is cut off by a _thwack_ on his head.

“Twat,” Ross says.

“Love you,” Smith manages to murmur, exhaustion hitting him even harder than imagined, a feeling of his whole body sinking heavily into the mattress. He feels happy, and can’t quite muster the energy to open his eyes when Ross throws an arm over him and burrows into his back - roughened finger-tips tracing patterns along his bare skin.

He hopes Ross can sleep quickly, too, when Smith isn’t up to providing much conversation to distract him.

The other man is restless, breathing faster than normal, but he’ll be alright in a bit. He always is.

Smith’s lucky in that sense. Sleep comes swiftly and naturally – it’s what he likes to think of as his basic survival instincts kicking in, his body knowing it has to get sleep where it can, but then he supposes if that were the full case he wouldn’t have the habit of snoring like a wild boar to alert everyone of his location.

That’s the final thought he has before drifting off that night.

That and the soft press of lips against his forehead, and a barely audible, “Love you.”

* * *

The river is about a twenty minute walk from the community and is plentiful and wide enough to provide a regular source of fish. During the winter months it could freeze up along the shorelines, and stepping in would feel like stabbing yourself with a thousand tiny knives, but during the summer it’s almost pretty, shining blues and greens sparkling under the sunlight. It’s also a place that has a number of medicinal plants growing along its banks, including elderberries, which Craig’s asked them to gather as they stock up ready for when the weeks turn colder and heading out becomes more treacherous.

Smith’s currently untangling his hair from an annoying cluster of twigs, when he sees it.

_Is that…?_

Smith freezes. Time almost freezes. There’s a figure, in the middle of the river, struggling as the current drags them further downstream. After a moment they disappear fully under and there’s nothing but splashes and ripples, before they come bursting up again and continue to thrash about. He sees now that it is not one but two figures, and his heart stops for a second. It’s a biter. Another second passes, for a flash of a moment he catches glimpse of the human face, a man, young, dark hair, eyes wide with terror. For a moment – then everything lurches back up to speed.

“Fuck!” Is all he says, and every action he takes after that is a blur before the plunge into the depth jolts him back to reality. He doesn’t have time to think and the wash of water over his ears blocks out thought anyway, nothing but one goal ahead of him. “Hold on!” he tries to splutter out. “I’m coming!”, powering forth as fast as he can, “I’ve got you!”

The stranger has both hands gripped around the biters neck, and it’s probably only because of the river that he hasn’t been overwhelmed yet, but it’s obvious he’s tiring, and now he’s closer Smith can see blood flowing freely from multiple cuts across his face.

Smith strikes out. Attempts to grab onto something he can use to pull the boy away, and he _does_ get something. His hand goes straight through rotten flesh. A disfigured face turns to him, snarling. White, soulless eyes feast into his own, and when he makes a move towards him, Smith finds he can’t react. It’s like his mind’s gone completely blank.

They’re getting carried further and further down river and Smith doesn’t fucking know what to do. He’s alone – out here, no backup – there’s noises in his head, noises that he doesn’t think were there before. He blinks hard a few times. Things aren’t making sense. This isn’t right. Not right, not right, not right. He needs to get out. He needs to escape. He needs…

Somehow, amidst all the chaos inside and out, his gaze locks with another’s again, but this time the eyes are brown, and scared, and confused, and so very, very human. And right now they’re looking to Smith to see what he’s going to do, and perhaps he’s imagining things in the split second but there’s a feeling he gets from them that he can’t quite interpret yet is somehow familiar, like he hasn’t felt such as way in a long, long time.

And he has to do something.

Suddenly, there’s a rock in his hand – how did he get the rock? – slippery and slimy with moss, but he grips it firm. Then it’s red somehow, without him doing anything, he – no, he had done something. It’s dead… the biter’s dead. It’s head’s caved in. He’d beaten it in with the rock. Huh… _now that wasn’t so hard was it?_

Minor blackout aside, he focuses on the stranger, wraps an arm around his chest pulling him close – a pang of guilt at hearing a yelp of pain, but pulling him closer until his head is resting against Smith’s shoulder, feels the steady if slightly quick rhythm of his breathing. After all that he can’t help but smile, genuine, but out of fucking relief more than anything.

He keeps the boy close until they finally reach shallow water.

Then he leans back on his hands, throwing his head back, almost wheezing with the exertion.

“Nice work, mate,” he puffs out, as his two companions come barrelling through the woods to join them.

* * *

After a couple more seconds of catching his breath, Smith reaches a hand out, wants to check the boy is unharmed.

Or, to put it more accurately, that he hasn’t been bit – because, seeing him up close, even with half of him submerged in water, it’s clear to see he is far from unharmed – and Smith is angry, gaze burning hot flames of anger, jaw clenched to stone. The small, weak shakes are all the response the boy gives to what’s going on. His face is bloodied and bruised, a mixture of blood and mud leaking down from a sodden hairline, a right ear so badly torn Smith fears it might fall off altogether if he moves too much.

“Shit, are you okay?” Sips is asking him, coming to a crouch and looking at him in a way that reminds Smith of a worried parent. “You got over here fucking fast. I turn around for one second and the next thing I know you’re in the water beating a biter’s face in.”

“I’m good,” Smith reassures, nodding towards the stranger. “What about you? How bad you hurt?”

“Alright, son.” Sips says in the most gentle tone Smith’s ever heard him speak as he reaches out slowly to place a hand on the shivering shoulder. The other man lurches away suddenly at the contact, like he’s just been snapped out of a trance, almost toppling back under the water. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s alright, kid, it’s alright,” Sips hushes. “We’re not gonna hurt you, we just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt too badly. How about we all start by getting out of the water, huh? That sound like a good first step?”

The stranger makes no attempt to move. He’s clearly just as shocked at seeing them as they were finding him – but Sips is already taking the initiative, smiling softly as he reaches out a slow hand again.

“We’ve got a place not far from here, it’s safe. There’s a group of us. We’ll be able to help if you come with us, that’s all we wanna do, help,” he assures, and the other man stares at him for a long time but eventually gives a tiny nod.

Smith’s hovering next to Sips like a shadow as the older man starts to help the stranger up, but it becomes really fucking obvious the boy is in no fit shape to be moving by himself as his knees buckle the moment he attempts to stand, shaking fierce, a horrible wet cough starting to erupt from his chest. He exchanges a look with Sips, who swiftly gathers the boy into his arms. Not a moment too soon, as the scared eyes finally roll back and his whole body goes limp.

“Smith?”

He turns. Ross hasn’t moved at all since he and Sips got here, standing nearer the trees – he’s staring at him, at all three of them, and his eyes are huge and his skin even paler than normal.

“Help us, Ross!” he barks, and sees Ross blink.

“Sorry… I uh… I’ll grab your stuff, Sips!” he rallies, rushing forward, “And I can run ahead to let the others know what’s happened – I can tell Craig.”

Ah right. That’s a good idea. Heading quickly back to the safety of the community is also probably the best thing for Ross right now too. Despite being perfectly happy to send himself headfirst into a horde last night, it’s obvious Smith’s encounter has left him somewhat shaken.

“Alright, be careful,” he says, his worry rising up as he watches Ross dart off into the woods. He gathers up the rest of the stuff and returns to Sips, who’s crouched down with the stranger in his arms, but out of the water now. Smith does a double take – the guy’s slashed to shit, like holy fuck, cuts littering his arms, some scabbing as others bleed freely, but like Sips’ immediate attention was on, he was far more concerned about the deeper slashes across his stomach and chest, ripped straight through the dark t-shirt.

“Fucking hell, what the fuck happened to him?” he exclaims.

Sips’ gaze is clouded with worry, as close to panic as Smith’s ever seen him.

“I dunno, but we need to hurry,” he replies, gathering the boy into his arms, setting off at a jog.

“You don’t think he actually got bit under all that?”

“Maybe, but I’m not stopping to check,” Sips murmurs.

Smith grunts in wordless agreement while keeping level pace as they enter the woods. The cold shakes from the river have worn off now. He’s vaguely aware he has a cut on his forehead but he takes the chance to watch over the stranger. His breathing is shallow and uneven, cutting off involuntarily to let out that horrible hacking cough that shakes his whole body.

“By the way,” Sips breathlessly says in his ear, “You did good. You saved his life back there. Never seen you go at a biter that quick before, thought it was someone else for a second. Whatever happens to this kid – well, I just want you to know you did all you could. Might even go as far as to saying I’m proud. How about that?”

“It was just one biter,” Smith replies, flatly. He’s been dealing with them for six years – six years since he stabbed his first through the eye, unthinking, Ross, crying behind him – he had simply been protecting this guy like he had for Ross back then.

“I know. But still.”

It’s all Smith can do to keep his eyes on the path ahead, a sharp and almost longing tug – he can’t help but look to the form in Sips’ arms every few seconds, anger remaining at a steady boil at every new injury noticed. Whoever the fuck hurt the boy, Smith would love to be given a room alone with them. Just give him one minute.

“Go ahead.”

Smith nods. He takes one last glance before breaking into a sprint – tearing through the last patch of trees. His shirt’s askew where branches pulled it, and his face is red with from blood inside and out. Lydia spots him from a distance and calls for the gates to open as he runs up.

“He’s hurt really bad guys. Sips has got him, just behind,” he pants, as soon as he’s in.

“Craig’s set up so he can take him straight in.”

“Did you check if he’s bit? You left Sips alone with him? What if he turns? You know how quickly it can happen!”

“He’s right behind me,” Smith says to Tom, stiffly, doubling over to catch his breath “And when you see him you’ll see he’s not gonna be much of a threat to anyone, even in biter form.”

That’s a fat lie, they both know, biters missing arms or legs can be deadly enough, but he ignores the mutters that continue from the bearded man. Sips has caught up now anyway, and as he approaches he sees the expressions of sickened horror in the others faces, and there’s a hand on his arm, Lewis’, and the man looks down at him in earnest.

“C’mon, take some time to tell me what happened and we can visit Craig once he’s had a better look,” he says quietly. “Ross told me you risked your own life to save him, you were lucky there weren’t more –”

“Who do you think I am? I’m not a baby. I had it handled, Lewis,” Smith snaps. “You and Sips are acting like I fought off an army of them.”

Lewis still looks concerned – but he doesn’t push it, and Smith’s glad. He doesn’t like to think of how the anger and worry’s still simmering in his blood, how even remembering the image of all the injuries and the fear in those eyes makes him want to punch something –

_Kill something –_

How it makes a sick feeling too close to guilt bubble up at the bottom of his gut. In that moment all he’s searching for is Ross’s face and his smile and the soft words he can always provide – doesn’t understand where this feeling of something he can’t quite place is coming from, clawing around his insides, rolling around viciously in his stomach.

Ross is in front of him without him even realising it, but the moment he is, he’s okay. He’s _home_.

_…it’s alright, Smith. You did good. You saved me. Now let’s go. It’s alright, I’m here. I’m right here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, there it is. Let's see how long I can keep this up haha.
> 
> As I said, I'm not gonna stress myself out by making a schedule but the second chapter isn't too far away cause it was originally part of this one until I split them up.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who gave this a read!


	2. Chapter 2

_He can’t forget the last few moments when everything was okay. It was a trip they’d been planning for months, the gaming nerds that they were, heading to a huge convention in America had filled him with endless excitement, like his whole body was a constant coiled spring, his apparent puppy-like enthusiasm amusing and aggravating Smith to no end._

_They were at a pub. It was a warm evening, and there was a man playing Queen songs on the piano outside. Picturesque. It’s packed inside, and he’s never been a fan of close crowds, but it’s also more fun with lots of people, and they were all singing – a cacophony of very loud moderately in tune voices, a drunken choir. Pressing up near the window tracing their initials into the fog on the glass – S + R. Smith scrawling a dick around it to add some decoration._

_“You’re ruining the moment,” he remembers saying at one point, but Smith just laughed – the last laugh for a long time – and he remembers the fondness that swelled in his chest and now it hurts so, so much, he had no fucking clue at the time that it was the last laugh, the last smile in a world that was safe and normal and good, and he remembers perfectly the last fucking thing he said to him before it all went to shit, God, he can’t fucking forget it sometimes, he said –_

“Kid hasn’t said a fucking word the entire time.”

Ross startles at Sips’ voice. It’s a very internal reaction – the brick wall is comfortingly warm against his back, almost allowing him to drift off. It’s been a few hours since he’d set up watch, and he had settled into a daze. He barely got any sleep last night. Closer to _none_ , actually.

Now he reaches up and rubs at his eyes, his head throbbing with that particular ache that comes with pulling an all-nighter – like it’s full of building pressure, just waiting to burst out.

“What’s that?” he asks, and Sips sighs.

“The kid,” he says. “You saw how bad he was hurt? Well, there’s more, it only got worse the more Craig looked. But nothing out of him, even though he’s been awake the whole time and all. He’s not even making noise when it’s obvious he’s hurting. He fucking terrified, man.”

“I didn’t know we were expecting him to be full of beans after almost drowning,” Ross observes, sounding more like Tom than he expects.

“We’re _not_ ,” Sips replies, defensively. “Just saying… it’s not right.”

“No, you’re right,” Ross laments, rubbing his eyes again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep much. And then finding that guy in that state, and seeing Smith just jump in like that –”

Sips opens his mouth to interrupt, but Ross continues, forcing the conversation on.

“ – and not knowing when the next horde attack will come, how we’re gonna cope if it’s the same as last year when they kept getting bigger, when we barely coped that time.” He glances at Sips and smiles ruefully. “The video games made it seem so much simpler – turns out there aren’t shit tons of guns and ammo just lying around the countryside. Anyways, Hulmes has got Smith helping him with building and we all know how that’s gonna end – I better check they’re not ready for murder yet.”

Sips’ mouth opens and closes, like he’s ready to say something but decides against it, and instead it slowly stretches into a grin.

“You can tell him the kid’s sleeping now, Craig’s given him something to help, be out cold for a while. It’s gonna take a while, but he should make a full recovery as long as we look after him.”

“Cool. That’ll put his mind at ease.”

“Good,” Sips says, and rubs his hands together, gleefully. “Yeah. If only things were more like video games. Our gamer scores would be so high right now, it’s a real shame.”

Ross laughs fondly, glad to see the other man is still in his usual high spirits. A moment later, they’re clasping their hands together, a quick farewell, a silent understanding, Sips pulling him to his feet, and then Ross is heading off behind the house.

The area behind is reserved for storage of various pieces of equipment. Stuff they’ve come across during their scavenging that they might occasionally or have yet to find a use for, and he himself doesn’t pay much attention to the place, just does what he’s told and grabs the stuff when someone else deems it to have importance. These particular buildings don’t fit in with the rest of the grounds – low-roofed, plastic tarp fixed across metal walls, everything a little overgrown, built hastily many years ago and never upgraded.

The rear watchtower’s not occupied, but when he looks up he sees Lydia walking the walls a bit further along, seeming pretty bored. She’s got a knife in her hands, flicking it up into the air absentmindedly. She looks up and shoves it in her belt loop as he climbs up.

Ross knows she’ll be unhappy, annoyed if she looks at him and is able to tell that he didn’t sleep last night. She was there, fighting alongside him – met his strikes blow for blow, put her life on the line as much as he did – but the difference is she always seems to be able to sleep it off, and sometimes that makes him feel like he’s letting people down.

He’d never admit it. The others would never see it as that after all, but it doesn’t stop him feeling the way he does when he wants to, but physically and mentally _can’t,_ be the Ross he knows people need. God knows he’s aware how hypocritical that sounds when he himself is often the one encouraging them to always look on the bright side of things, with his quick to laugh slow to fret personality, and the whispers he hears that aren’t meant for his ears, that he’s happy-go-lucky to the point of being overly innocent.

But honestly, something about that characterisation puts him at ease. Maybe it’s the naivety of it. Maybe it’s because Ross has seen so many have that last shred of human naivety ripped away and holy shit, it’s no wonder things ended how they did at _Redwood_ – freedom had been a word that was tossed around a lot back then, freedom from the law maybe, freedom from morality. Maybe it’s because he knows all about what hope can do for a person, and if to most eyes he seems somehow like a beacon of untouched light that is blissfully unaware how shit everything really is, not just believing but _living_ that life, it’s enough of an incentive to carry on smiling.

Or maybe it’s to protect himself, because Ross wears his smiley mask for a damn good reason, and there’s something about the dark-mirrored glasses Tom’s taken to wearing recently, forcing you to stare at your own reflection instead of ever seeing his, that suggests he’s not alone. Eyes are windows, after all, and he can understand exactly why certain things are best kept hidden, even from those you love most.

Or – maybe – Ross really is just too fucking naive. Maybe he’s just a kid who always wants to believe the best in people and trust that everything they do is for a good reason. God knows that’s how Ross started out.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” Lydia says disapprovingly, and Ross fights the urge to roll his eyes as he pulls out a disarming smile.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I just wanted to be the first one up to check on the new pup.”

“Fair,” Lydia grins, and Ross grins back, and fuck, smiling in the face of everything really _does_ help. He felt heavy and cold getting out of bed this morning, icy tendrils digging into his sides – some days, it never goes away – but when he can smile, and make others smile, joke around and have a laugh – he feels warm. It’s part of why Ross fell in love with Smith, no one makes him feel that way more.

Lydia throws an arm across his shoulders when he gets nearer. She’s one of the few women he’s ever met who can do so without dislocating her shoulder to reach up.

“You keep track of your score last night?” she asks, and Ross lets out a huff of laughter.

He’s happy with the game – killing biters over and over again can get pretty monotonous, after all – but he isn’t quite as invested in the whole competition aspect as the others. And with Lydia, she’s always trying to think up new ways to spice up the rules. It probably won’t be long before she has them all hopping around on one leg if they miss the head first time.

As it is, blowing a raspberry at his ‘no’ seems to be Lydia’s go-to response. He catches Duncan’s eye down below who mouths something at Ross that he doesn’t quite catch, but he’s pretty sure it’s something along the lines of _push her off the wall_ , and quickly goes back to digging his trench when Lydia glares down.

“How are they getting on?” Ross asks Lydia quietly as they approach a particularly noisy section of the wall – sawing and hammering and the odd yelled curse.

“Slowly.” A single, short answer. “They keep fighting over who gets to use the axe.”

Ross nods, unsurprised. He leans over the wall and peers down, Lydia moving up next to him.

The perimeter is made up of a double layer of logs, chopped down from the dense woods that surround the house on three sides and secured upright into deep holes. A narrow walkway joins the two layers near the top, ladders to take them up on the inside, no way down, the only way to walk in from the outside is through the main gate. It’s what Ross and Smith spent a lot of their first year here working on, building that outer wall whenever they could spare the time, and he’s sure as shit glad for it now.

It’s expansion Smith and Hulmes are working on. Ideally, if they did find more horses or livestock,they would use this area to lock up the animals during winter. He’d nearly forgotten, but it was from the woods on this side, five years ago, where he and Smith had come staggering out of those trees. Well, Ross had, Smith had been –

“Fuck’s sake, you’ve already chopped this one to pieces,” Smith complains loudly at his fence building buddy. “This is precisely why I should be the one using the axe, with shoddy work like this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, you prick!” Hulmes yells right back.

“Hey, play nice, boys,” Ross says, and starts to climb over. “We’re on a schedule, remember?”

Smith stops what he’s doing, filing the end of the logs down into a spike, and looks around – and Ross can tell he’s eager to hear any news right away, his wet and bloody encounter still fresh in his mind but overshadowed by a hope that things were better because of what he did, plus the cut on his forehead’s closed up nicely. Five years, that hope clawing and fighting it’s way back – that first night Ross had slumped on the couch with him, shaking with relief that they’d made it, pressed close to him, warm, hearts beating, _alive_. That was back, back before Ravs joined their community, before Bouphe and Lydia – it feels like forever ago. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe the difference between here and _there_.

He can see the mix of emotions that flash across Smith’s face and wishes that he wasn’t able to see it all so clearly. He waits, thinking maybe… just maybe – but Smith just bounds over to him, his eyes bright, and Ross sees him bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Hey,” he says, voice animated. “So, what’s going on – it’s been ages! Fuck, he’s alright, right? I wanted to come by but then I didn’t wanna get in the way and then Hulmes was being a little bitch saying I wasn’t concentrating and –”

“He’s good. He’s sleeping, Smith. Craig knocked him out.” Ross offers to calm him down. “Didn’t see him myself but Sips let me know.”

“Oh.” Smith’s lips curl into a big smile. “That’s a relief.”

Ross bites his lip. He wants to think of a way to subtly bring it up, but Smith’s already turning to go back to his workbench and continue with his log filing. His whole face has lit up – pure joy, if a little grimy from a few days of not washing off properly – and Ross doesn’t have the words necessary to breach the subject, so instead resorts to thinking it, replaying the brave but very stupid act of jumping into a fast flowing river unaided without so much as a call for backup. Taking on a biter in those conditions, even one, was not how they’d keep everyone alive.

_But he is alive – and that’s the most important thing._

He abruptly remembers Hulmes, curious if he’s listening in on their conversation – but the other man’s vanished, and it takes Ross a moment to realise he’s slipped silently off to the edge of the woods. He glances at Smith, but he’s already carving away at the log, and Ross leaves him to it.

“Hulmes,” he says, slapping on a tree like it’s a door.

Hulmes jumps. He was heaving an axe out of a stump, and whirls around with it quickly when Ross comes up behind him.

“Not a biter, sorry,” Ross holds up his hands. It was always so easy for people’s mind to jump to that fight or flight instinct nowadays, without it they all would have died a long time ago.

Hulmes just laughs it off, and brushes some dust off the axe blade, waiting for Ross to speak. He stops, giving him the one eyebrow raised look when it comes clear he’s struggling to think of how to start. His eyes soften as he answers anyway.

“He hasn’t talked about it,” he says. “Other than asking me if I think the guy will be okay he hasn’t said anything else.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Well, depends what you mean by nothing,” Hulmes offers. Then, at Ross’ inquisitive look, “He’s been as aggravating as ever.”

Ross studies him. Hulmes doesn’t have the mask of mirrored glasses like Tom; he can read him, can tell he’s not concerned or hiding anything.

“What were you expecting when you asked him to help?” he finally asks, smiling easily.

Hulmes grunts. He’s not really annoyed – and Ross isn’t fooled, the smaller man can give as good as he gets.

“Y’know, I sometimes wonder if things have changed for all life, it’s not like these trees have to worry about getting bit or are constantly worried about food and supplies. I get mad at them, sometimes, that they have it so easy. I end up picking the one I like the look of the least to cut down next. Fucking ridiculous, I know, but then the moment I make that first cut all that anger goes away… if you think about it, trees have been getting the rough end of the deal since life existed, they never hurt anyone, they literally keep our planet alive…. and yet they’re always at the bottom of those diagrams that mark intelligence or importance or strength, or whatever. So I also think maybe we’re the ones finally getting a taste of our own medicine. Y’know, experiencing what we’ve inflicted on all other life since we started painting on cave walls. Killing cause we can. Taking what we want. Thinking we can get away with it cause we’re always on top of those fucking stupid diagrams and that somehow gives our actions greater _meaning_. Now whose laughing, huh? I bet most of us would jump at the chance to be trees now…”

He trails off, seeming to catch himself, _embarrassed,_ and Ross stares at him. Christ, okay. That had come out of left field, and he has to admit that it is fucking _bizarre_. The words slipped out in a rush, barely legible between Hulmes’ low volume and how fast he was talking. But the second Ross registers it, he can’t help his flash of amusement.

“I… okay. Fair enough,” he manages, because, hell, he can’t really argue with that analogy. It makes a weird sort of sense. “Whatever you’ve been smoking, you’ve gotta get me some sometime. I’ll gladly talk trees with you all day if you want.”

Hulmes is looking down, but he steps aside and gestures at the tree Ross had tapped. Ross moves away from it.

Not tall. Narrow. The ones they cut down, they were always pretty small for ease of construction. There’s a few scratches in it’s bark that might have been caused from a small animal sharpening it’s claws. A few cracks with dried sap filling in the gaps – a sapsucker woodpecker, most likely. A bunch of fungi sprouting out at various points, like parts of a green and grey tattoo. Hulmes reaches out and runs a hand lightly over the mottled wood – and Ross suddenly feels a bit of what the other man was getting at, a bit of empathy, towards a fucking tree. Hulmes looks to him one more time, eyes glinting, and he smirks.

“I’ll gladly be tree neighbours with you,” he says, and then waggles his eyebrows. “We can touch roots – Nina will be fine with it, she’ll be in on the action too, all three of us touching tips.”

Ross replies with an exclamation of disgust. Hulmes laughs, harder, and swings his axe without saying another word. Ross backs away, bemused – then takes a last look at the woods, silent in their suffering, just trying to get on with living, always standing tall and strong and together nevertheless, and he sighs, and goes to take over from Lydia.

* * *

Smith’s already put Tom’s clean clothes away in his room and is now organising and tidying other bits and pieces into neat piles or on shelves with a particular obsessiveness. The sight makes Ross smile as he climbs the stairs up into the large open attic space, checking that Smith was getting on with his other best friend.

“He’s giving me shit, but I’m being good,” Smith says, without looking up.

“You mean he’s been asking you to do stuff because he’s busy fixing up the radio?”

“This wasn’t in my contract. I mean, his five thousand year old boxers are super fucking gross and full of holes. Like, Jesus Christ, dude, get new ones already.”

“I’ll remind him to pick some up on his next trip to Target. He’s not asleep, is he?” Ross asks, sitting on the edge of the windowsill.

Tom has a set of headphones on, his head lowered.

“Nah, he’s trying to listen out for shit.”

“It’s got wider range, now?”

“Yeah, I _think_ ,” Smith replies, “Though for all I know, he’s been making shit up and is just listening to music. It’s not like he lets me have a go, just cause he built the whole fucking thing, cocky little shit.”

He turns and grins at Ross, who smiles back, happy to see there’d been no fisticuffs between the two yet. He hadn’t liked how bitter Smith had sounded the night before – how worked up he could get over every comment Tom made. Still, he can’t say he’s surprised. Out of all of them, Tom gets straight to the point when it comes to the others – the things they do, the way they behave – he’s deeply invested in creating a strong and stable community, expects them all to do everything they can to make this vision come true. It was no hidden fact Smith wanted to pack up and leave, and that meant they were constantly opposing to some degree.

Ross opposes the vision in some ways, too. Nothing along the lines of finishing up here and moving on – but the opposite. He’s seen where that vision can lead, he supposes, of wanting to be bigger and better all the time. Oh, it hits him sometimes, but he’s quite sure he’ll be able to ignore and not think about Tom trying to make contact with outsiders for the most part, unlike Smith who he can tell will be ready to march on out with purpose the moment they find another community out there.

Still – it’s nice to see him smiling now, as he picks up the last cables and ties them together on the floor underneath Ross, reaching out to poke his leg.

“What’s the cloud dog up to, then?” he asks. “Sitting and pining?”

“Think I saw her watching over the chickens.”

“Uh-oh, if she nabs one of them I’m gonna cook and eat that curly little tail of hers,” Smith says, shoving his back between Ross’ legs. “How long until he gets off that thing and talks to me properly? What else do I have to do? Serve him a five course dinner?”

“He told you this morning it wouldn’t be until tonight cause he’d be busy,” Ross offers.

“Yeah? He’s been busy? He’s been sitting up here while I’ve already been foraging, built a fence, tidied his shit up _and_ saved a life.”

“You constructed a foot of fence. You’re only here now cause Hulmes told you to fuck off early.”

Smith pulls a face at him, then huffs out a laugh.

“That’s not a lie,” he says. “But it’s boring. I always get given the boring jobs. Even when hordes attack I always seem to get the boring job. Zombie apocalypses are fucking _boooriing_.”

“Oh yeah, using night vision binoculars, very boring,” Ross murmurs, but can’t help wonder about it. For a flicker of a second, Smith almost seemed like he was getting to a point. Debating about who was having the most fun, it’s the sort of ridiculous conversation he would’ve usually had with Lydia, or Kim, or any of the people who fought with him last night. And it _can_ be fun, there’s no question about it – Ross has killed a lot of biters, held off a lot of hordes, and if he’s with a team, people he knows have got his back, no matter what, the experience can be one of a God damn kind. It’s almost a shame things went the way they did with Redwood, he might feel all the better for it – then again, he’s not sure he’d want to go out with too much confidence, fun would _always_ come below cautiousness.

“Still,” Ross adds, frowning a little. “No one’s better than you at giving call outs, we’d be so much more lost without a trusted voice from above. I know I feel safer going out, if you’re my eyes in the sky.”

“I guess,” Smith muses. After a moment, he scoots closer to Ross, wedging his head right between his thighs, and grins up at him. “Too close for you, yet?”

Ross rolls his eyes. He laughs and reaches for Smith, hand stroking through his hair before running down his neck. Smith leans into his touch like a cat before swivelling around to flop his upper body over Ross’ lap.

They joke, but it did take a while, and a lot of cold mornings and lonely stares before they regained _this_ – their comfortable ease, the _warmth_ , Ross managing to trust enough to let himself be held close again. When they’d arrived here, at Yogs, there was a lot of pain, a lot of rocky moments – but it’s worth it _now_ , five years on, the two of them together and all the happiness it’s brought him. To be close to someone is to be vulnerable – but he’s not scared with Smith. Not anymore.

He leans down to kiss him, but the angle’s all wrong and their noses bump. Smith giggles like a child, and tugs Ross down to sit beside him on the dusty floorboards.

“I can always trust you to – _Always look on the bright side of life_ ,” he sing-songs.

Ross snorts. They used to sing that song all the fucking time when they first moved in together, but it’s been an age since he’s heard it.

“ _Life’s a piece of shit when you look at it._ ”

“ _Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true,_ ” Smith continues, poking at his side. “ _You’ll see it’s all a show, keep ‘em laughing as you go._ ”

“ _Just remember that the last laugh is on youuu… aaaand,_ ”

“ _Always look on bright side of life!_ ”

Smith laughs and then moves towards him, leaning over to nip and kiss at his jaw.

“Now, Smith?” he asks. “Really?”

“He’s not watching,” Smith laughs.

“He’s literally sitting right there!”

“So? He doesn’t have to watch unless he’s a perv. Which would be very _naughty,_ ” he jokes, and his breath tickles at Ross’ neck. He has to stifle a giggle, and Smith grins wickedly. “What, does that tickle?”

“This is not the place for it,” he hisses.

“For what? You’re saying we can’t bang? You don’t wanna bang in the attic next to Tom?” Smith teases theatrically. “So Tom’s not only here to hinder me from unleashing my true talent, he’s cockblocking us as well?”

“I didn’t say we can’t,” Ross replies. “Just maybe not within uh… throwing distance, let’s say.”

Smith doesn’t reply, but the ensuing quiet is so fucking awkwardly silent, other than the ongoing static buzz from the radio, that it’s suddenly hilarious. They wait, but Tom seems still lost in his own world, and after a moment Smith starts snickering and can’t seem to stop. It sets Ross off too, and every time Smith leans in to try and kiss him one or the other of them starts laughing again. Finally they just flop next to each other, arms touching, giggling like children –

It’s happy, and _innocent_ , and when Ross turns to look at Smith and sees his flushed face and eyes crinkled happily and wavy hair sticking in every direction, he _adores_ him suddenly. It’s only like this, together, that the coldness ebbs away and he feels like the raw and pained space inside him is healing up – and for a little while he is not sad or scared, but things feel in balance again. For a little while, together, everything is okay and he can almost _forget_.

* * *

Lewis is sitting on the arm of the couch when they enter, his back to the door.

He’s got his notebook out, and a set of pencils, and is doodling determinedly – pausing now and then to reach out and adjust the blankets over the sleeping figure in front of him. There seem to be a hundred medical things lying about on the floor and on top of the table, but the only thing Ross really notices as he comes up behind Lewis is that the strangers clothes are off, and set on the floor beside him.

It makes sense. It’s hard to bandage and keep everything clean with clothes on, and it’s not like they haven’t covered him up with every blanket spare; it’s more the fact that even with all those blankets, he still looks so small – makes him stop in his tracks so suddenly that Smith, behind him, bumps into his back.

“Move, bitch,” he protests, and Lewis turns at the noise.

Ross can’t help but ignore him and continue to stare, even if he keeps his face carefully relaxed. Shit – he knew from what he’d seen briefly that the guy had been badly hurt and in terrible condition, but it still comes as a bit of surprise to see it all there, lying silently in front of him.

He’s taken aback by how _innocent_ the guy looks.

He knew the other man was young, but somehow – maybe because he’d been rescued from the outside – he’d expected the same hard, sharp edges that Ross and Smith had come in with, a certain darker shadow that comes with being out there on your own. He isn’t sure exactly how to put it into words – but whatever it is, it’s _absent_. Though they can’t be too dissimilar in age he gets why Sips had been calling him ‘kid’ – narrow-faced, but soft, little shadows under dark eyelashes, now dry hair resting gently over his forehead. Handsome, if Ross was into that type – somehow with all the cuts and bruises across his face he manages to still appear peaceful and at ease.

_His hair’s been dyed._ For some reason it’s that detail that sticks in his mind – a sudden, unexpected feature contrasting the rest of his damaged face. Blond – the very ends of his hair have a blondish hue, like it had been dyed months ago and he’d let it grow out all the way.

Beside him, he hears Smith let in a surprised gasp of air. Lewis notices them staring, and Ross sees the corner of his mouth tilt up a little before he quickly turns away.

_So this is where you’ve been all day._ It’s a bit out of character, doesn’t fit with the way Lewis normally handles things, usually keeping himself busy rather than giving himself in to overthinking – but the man seems composed enough and smiles sadly down at the figure as Ross moves around behind the couch.

“How is he then, honestly?” he asks.

“Who or what could’ve done this to him?” Smith exclaims as he kneels down next to the man, glaring long and hard at his injuries.

“Seems like he’s not eaten in a while, which doesn’t help with all the blood loss,” Lewis mutters. “He was good as gold though when Craig was patching him up, whether that was out of terror or tiredness or both… as for the other thing, I don’t know – believe me, I’ve been thinking about it just as much as you.”

“But he’s gonna _live_?” Smith presses. “Sips told us he’d make a full recovery. That’s right, right?” he continues, and looks at Lewis in a way that Ross can only assume is indicative of ‘don’t you fucking tell me no’, or something else along the lines of ferocious determination for good news.

“Yeah,” Lewis replies. “Yeah… there’s nothing life-threatening right now, at least.” And he bites his lip, momentarily, but Ross catches it.

“Why do I sense a silent ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?” he asks.

Smith’s started picking through Craig’s assortment of medical belongings, and Lewis shoots him a warning look. He rolls his eyes and finally stands and moves around the couch to be beside Ross. The man wheezes a little as he moves, and apparently that’s enough to cause him serious concern when Ross asks his question.

“There’s something else? What? What is it? What do we do?” Smith demands. He’s standing straight, arms crossed, forehead lowering into a frown, reminiscent of the old employee who used to come home and rant about his asshole boss.

“I didn’t really want to say anything yet…”

“Just tell us then,” Smith snaps, nodding at Ross. “We won’t tell anyone but I think we deserve to know everything, we found him after all.”

Lewis looks briefly torn. It’s strange, him making a decision on the spot, to actually see him react – usually he would take a walk on his own when making important choices that would affect the group. Quiet as he is, his face tells an entirely different story – Ross can read the mix of doubts and questions all fighting with each other.

“Very well,” he says, finally, voice tight. “There’s tattoos. Three, well, four, but three of them were… interesting.”

When it comes clear they aren’t interjecting, he continues, “You know how he had those two deeper slashes on his chest and stomach? We couldn’t see at first but once we cleaned him up they were there. Not big. Fucking hard to tell now, but looks like it might’ve been a spider web and then like a little Celtic triangle thing…”

Ross swallows. “Could be a coincidence,” he replies.

It’s such a lie that Ross can’t help his little head shake at himself – mostly because he’s thinking of his own mask, and the beliefs people had in him, and it’s not even really their _place_ to be peeling back the layers of someone they don’t know without him being awake to hide himself. Ross knows the reasons people have tattoos are often deeply personal, as is the reason he wears his mask, rooted in shit he’d rather not share with _anyone_. 

“What about the third?” Smith asks, breaking Ross out of his trance. “You said there were three that were _interesting_.”

Lewis’ face is all the answer they need. He turns his head to the boy. There’s a flickering kind of emotion in his eyes – eyes that are lingering on a certain area, currently covered up and bandaged to shit.

“Craig’s done all he can to stop him from losing it, fifty-fifty what happens now” he explains, as they all lock eyes where a right ear _should_ have been. “I didn’t even see it, but Craig told me after. A word just inside the top of the ear – seems like it was in a different language. And I was also thinking the other two might be a coincidence, until that, cause that… that’s not a normal injury guys, it’s a straight-up cut from top to over halfway.”

“Someone purposefully tried to cut if off,” Ross mumbles, feeling a little sick.

“Targeted attacks tells us he knew whoever did this to him,” Lewis replies. “And if this person or _people_ are still alive I would’ve thought they’d be angry they didn’t complete the job. Maybe.. I don’t know… I think by tomorrow I’ll have figured out a bit more what I’m gonna say to him when he’s awake.”

“ _I’m_ ,” Smith points out, stiffening. “That’s a bit different to _we’re_.”

“Yes,” Lewis replies curtly. “Because the last thing this guy’s gonna need is an interrogation and I query how much talking he’ll want to do anyway but it’s gonna need to be under as little stress as possible.”

“You’re saying I’m gonna scare him, I won’t, I _promise_ ,” Smith pleads.

Another brief flicker of uncertainty crosses Lewis’ face.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” he says, tightly. “A little trust should be in order – and it goes both ways. After all, I’m not a dictator. You two could go and tell everyone what I’ve just told you, but I trust that you won’t. Smith, I know you mean well –”

“Mean well?” Smith cuts in. “Forgive me for being a bit fucking angry about the bastards who did this to him! We’ve gotta take the initiative – find out all we can, make sure this doesn’t happen to one of us.”

“That’s all speculation,” Lewis says. His eyes are carefully fixed on the boy, not looking at Smith even if he’s leaning towards him and glowering. But Ross, watching silently, can see just how tense Lewis is – can read it in the lines of his face and how carefully _blank_ his expression is. “Here are the facts, he’s been hurt, badly, and he’s been hurt for a reason. But we don’t know who he is or who the people who hurt him are. We don’t know if we can trust him, if he’s dangerous, if he’s the bad guy in all this. We know that not all other groups out there are all for working together. You’re the ones who told us, you’re the ones who experienced it.”

“ _It was nothing like this!_ ” Smith scoffs.

“Smith,” Ross says quietly, and looks over at him. “It’s fine.”

Smith glances at him. Ross knows he’s surprised – he doesn’t know all the things Lewis has been told. But it’s not like he can explain it all now, everything’s too complex, but there isn’t a day that goes by when Ross’ own instincts for whatever reason tell him what he’s doing is or isn’t okay. Oh, he still wouldn’t bet that one day he won’t be judged for all his choices and his secrets and his lies – but here and now, it’s so fucking easy to say nothing more, and Smith stares searchingly at him before finally simmering down and shrugging his shoulders.

“Fine, I hear ya,” he grunts.

Lewis nods. He darts a tiny glance at Ross, and for a second something almost _guilty_ is in his eyes – but it’s hidden as he starts doodling busily, not looking up from his notebook.

“Yeah. By tonight I’m sure Sips and I can come up with a list of questions to get the most informative answers before he passes out again.”

“Is there anything we can do to help in the meantime?”

“Don’t let the others know what we spoke of, not yet,” Lewis says flatly, and Ross nods.

Smith walks to the door somehow stepping on every creaky floorboard, and strides out of the room. The second he’s gone, Lewis stops doodling, twists in his seat to stare after him, then looks back at Ross.

“He’s not going to get better like this.” There’s something oddly fierce in his voice, his brown eyes burrowing deep into Ross’ blue. “If he’s going to be pulling more stunts like jumping into rivers; I don’t feel happy about it but I made you a promise. But Ross, there’s no way to hide it forever.”

It’s a painful pill to swallow – Ross doesn’t want to take it. Still, he attempts a smile.

“No,” he replies, which is more emotion than answer. “And he wasn’t pulling a _stunt_.” A defensiveness towards his partner rising up as always. “Don’t fucking make it out that he’s acting out of character. Risking himself to save someone who can’t save themselves, that’s Smith all over. If you don’t think it is then you don’t really know him. I love you, but you don’t know him like I do, not really.”

“And yet I still know more than him.” At that Lewis looks away, regretfully, and after a moment Ross walks away as well, leaving the room.

He thought this would be okay, that they could move on from this quickly. Logically. But he hadn’t realised until coming in here now just what the ramifications of Smith’s act of bravery were, what it means for them, and the _stranger –_ and a funny, heavy dread bears down on him. A feeling like something’s gonna happen, and soon – something that will change things. Not in a good way. His instincts have been learned rather than naturally inherited, but they’re sharp – he wouldn’t quite call it a premonition, but something just feels _off_ about the last few days. He can’t tell if it’s the return of the hordes, or the stranger, or Smith himself.

_Or maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just being fucking paranoid_.

That thought comforts him, and it is the most likely explanation.

_Don’t be stupid. It’ll all be fine. You just feel off – it’s been a chaotic forty-eight hours._ He squeezes his eyes shut as he heads out of the room. Every time the memories pop back into his head, every _time_ – it weighs him down like an anchor strapped to his back, making every movement and every thought exhausting, making him want to just fall down and curl up and sink into the earth. Even after five years – it’s not something he can shake off.

_It has nothing to do with the here and now. Don’t be stupid._

_It’ll all be fine._

* * *

The rest of the day passes… well, _peacefully_ , he supposes. Definitely very quietly.

Ross is doing his own theorising on the hordes, based on their previous experiences – but he really doesn’t have much to go on. All he knows for sure is that for the past five years they’ve hit them in waves – four times the first three years and six the previous two – but based on the scale of the first one this year, the threat’s probably going to be even greater. A lot greater. They’ve hit them from the same direction the entire time, front-facing, so there’s a clue as to their origin – but America’s a big fucking place, and the fuckers coming in from the North doesn’t tell him much.

He’s trying to figure out why it would be at the same time every year. And why it was getting quieter in the periods between. He didn’t think it was like birds migrating South for the winter, they weren’t that smart. His only breakthrough comes late in the day, when he’s moving the final charred remains out into the woods and finds something on one that’s escaped the burning under all the others. It’s the only tidbit of information he has and he makes a mental note to talk to the others about it later.

_And Smith? What’s he gonna make of it?_

_Don’t tell him, not yet._

_Only if someone else can back up his theory._

Smith’s skulking about by the armoury – organising the weapons and body armour for the next attack, probably – and Ross leaves him be. He knows he probably doesn’t want any of Ross’ platitudes or assurances right now, content just to simmer in his own annoyance.

_If he has enough time to himself he’ll be fine by dinner and he won’t bring up the topic again with Lewis_ , he thinks – because once Smith has his mind set on something it can take a bit for his engine to cool off, especially when he’s as invested in this person of interest as he is. He’s the one who saved him. He’s the reason they’ve got a potential threat recovering under their roof.

Smith comes to find him later that evening, fresh from a shower and wearing a t-shirt and baseball cap that supports some American team neither of them have ever heard of. Ross looks up from where he was sitting on the ground giving Diesel a scratch and a pat, and smiles at the sight of him. It’s good to see Smith more relaxed, but the sight of the cap also sends a pang through him, because he _remembers –_

(A man putting a hand on his shoulder as he sits down after a long day, when their days were spent in a place far from here and he would take the chance to have one brief moment of rest before he’d have to do it all over again, tired to the bone, but for those few short hours he was _home –_ he and Smith could be together and he could try and forget everything else, and it was freeing to have someone else to talk to and someone he could trust to keep an eye on things while he was gone –

And Smith was playing around with one of Ross’ knives, not quite familiar with the object, the firelight making his hair look more red, and the other man grins and gives the hair a ruffle, and places his own hat on Smith’s head, and Smith smiles. And then Griff –

_Griff –_ )

He swallows it down. Just a flash of a memory. The smell of moonshine and smoke, sounds of cheering and shouting and laughing – a lit cigarette, the back of a tousled blond head standing watch in his line of view to show him he can let his guard down for a while.

“How’d it go then?” he asks. His own voice seems to wake him from some daze.

Smith turns and gives a small smile.

“Tom actually agreed to consider some of my ideas.”

“I thought you looked like a kid on Christmas. C’mere.”

He holds out a hand, and Smith comes over to him. Ross tugs him down into a gentle, sweet kiss. Smith lets him, pliant under his touch. In the background they can hear the _thump, thump, thump,_ of Diesel’s wagging tail hitting the dirt.

“I was thinking about what Lewis told us earlier,” Ross says, when they pull apart. He sees Smith light up with curiosity. “He said first that there were four tattoos but only described the three that had been, y’know… had attempted removal, but he never told us what the fourth was and I kinda forgot about it after he hit us with the other shit. We’ll have to catch him and ask him about it later.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot too.” Smith’s brow furrows. “Maybe it’s lame, or dumb.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Smith’s face twists thoughtfully, and _shit_ , Ross thinks. He doesn’t want him to start driving himself crazy over the stranger again – not when there were no answers to be sought tonight.

“Hey,” he says quickly, getting up to distract him. It’s bad enough having Ross battling his memories – heavy with his past, and the last thing he wants is Smith dragged under too. “Let’s go and give Simon a heart attack by helping make dinner.”

* * *

The kitchen has been cleaned since he was last in here, shined up the point of looking like it’s part of a show house – except the dead chicken on the table – and some of the vegetables he’d helped pick the other day were there too. It’s easy enough to convince Harry to hand over his task and slip away – and though he’s a bit shocked at first, Simon seems to be glad for the different company. They talk about nothing, ridiculous things, old TV shows or celebrities or games that they wish they could have played when they had the chance. Smith cutting the bread and chopping the veg, Ross heating soup and cooking eggs.

Smith’s halfway through telling him all about some dream car that would be ideal for the apocalypse when their other newcomer approaches the door. The little dog freezes as soon as she arrives – they all watch her – she’s got her nose sniffing in the air and several twigs and seeds stuck in her fur, but turns around and walks back out as soon as they start trying to entice her closer.

“That dog is kinda weird,” Ross comments, frowning. “You see her do anything other than sit and walk around silently?”

“Probably,” Smith replies dismissively. He turns back to rather haphazardly chopping up the onions. “I bet she isn’t used to not being waited on hand and foot. Or paw and paw.”

“If that were the case, you’d think she’d wanna be pet now and again.”

“Well maybe she can smell that you’ve been rolling about in the dirt with Diesel!” Smith jokes. “Let the dog do what she likes. She can be antisocial if she wants.”

Ross raises his eyebrows, amused – despite his words Smith _was_ the one suggesting they needed to come up with a name – but at the moment there were so many different ideas that no one could agree on.

_For now it’s just “girl”. Or “little lady”._ She needs something that suits her, and her personality, but right now… Ross can’t really get a read on her. She just seemed so indifferent to everything and everyone that the thought she might actually be that way normally feels… iffy. Maybe it’s just because Ross has never seen another dog behave in such a way but there’s also the fact that she clearly _wasn’t_ a hunting or working dog like the others; she was meant to be someone’s companion, someone’s friend, and someone had to have been looking after her well, and looking after her until very recently.

But he shakes it off. _Not worth dwelling on. It probably doesn’t mean anything, anyway._

* * *

They eat together around the fire again, shooting the shit. Sips tracked and killed a deer today – a medium-sized whitetail that he’s been wanting to get for a while now – and they’re congratulating and thanking him with promises to take over any other jobs he has for the next week when Lewis slips away from the group and goes to climb the wall without so much as a word. No one seems to give him a second glance, and Ross seizes the opportunity. Moments later, he’s quietly disappearing too.

“You think we should be ready tonight?” Ross asks, curiously, as he approaches.

“Jesus!” Lewis exclaims, throwing a hand over his chest. “You’ve gotta stop being so stealthy.”

“Sorry. I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

“Well, I suppose that’s not the worst trait to have these days. Don’t worry about me, I’m just being paranoid. It probably won’t be for another week, judging by previous years, though we can only rely on that so much it seems,” he adds, sourly.

“What do you think it is?”

“Like they all decide to take a trip to Florida during the winter. So they start migrating now to get there in time.”

“Like birds, you really think that’s what they’re doing?” Ross asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“No, they haven’t got a fucking clue where Florida is. No one does anymore,” Lewis replies, tearing up his bread into two small pieces and popping them both into his mouth with relish. Ross watches him, then comes up to lean lazily over the wall.

“Do you think you want to hear my half-assed attempt at deductions?” he muses.

“Deductions, huh? Go on then.”

“It’s nothing really,” Ross mutters, a little embarrassed. “I was just thinking about the dog… where she might have come from. Since she clearly didn’t make it this long on her own and she’s not in bad condition.”

“Yeah?” Lewis watches him, intrigued.

Ross takes a moment, exhales slowly, and continues, “The biters, from last night, I found _something_. Didn’t mean to I was just moving all the remains to bury, y’know, but there was this one right at the bottom of the pile who’d escaped the worst. I was gonna leave it to burn again but before I did I caught a glimpse of… of this. Here, take a look.”

Ross reaches up the inside of his shirt, a little flustered under Lewis’ intense gaze. “I’ve been trying to hide it and keep it how it was. There – have a look for yourself.”

Lewis’ eyes narrow as he takes the knife from Ross’ outstretched hand. As he turns it over with a searching scrutiny, he freezes, appearing unsure of what he’s seeing at first, running a light finger along the metal. There’s a long, lingering pause in which Ross sees him going through the same motions he had when he’d first come upon the weapon, when there’s so many other possibilities of what it _might_ mean – but he seems to land on the conclusion Ross made, and takes one last long look at it, glancing up at him before promptly hiding it away himself.

“No one else knows about this?” he asks.

“No one.”

“Could be just this one died recently.”

Ross nods. “Could be.” And in the dim torch flames Ross thinks he sees Lewis’ jaw line clench a little.

“But,” he continues, “it could also mean there were other recent ones amongst the horde, including perhaps the owner of a certain little dog.”

“But how?” Ross asks, tensing up a bit. For some reason having Lewis agree takes him aback. “It still doesn’t explain why they all arrive at once. Or why it’s been happening every year at the same time.”

Lewis looks troubled.

“Something’s out there,” he says lowly, and Ross swallows.

“Not that I’m denying the fact that shit is out there, but acknowledging that doesn’t help our situation here. Perhaps we should be more concerned about hiding than fighting. I don’t want to be joining in on the next horde.”

“Easier said than done,” Lewis replies, sighing a bit. He seems almost lost in thought, hunched in on himself and not quite meeting Ross’ eye line – but then he suddenly lets out a ‘ _whoa’_ , and points up to the sky.

“Oh shit, Ross – look.”

The dark, starry night has transformed into a spectacle, and Ross exhales in awe as tiny little sparks cast streaks of orange over midnight blue.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, stepping back and tilting his head up. “They’re here again.”

He hears the rest of the groups excited chattering down below, too, scrambling up onto the walls to get the best view they can. All of them watch in silence as the meteors shoot by.

_“– and that there’s known as the Perseid meteor shower, happens every year in August but some are clearer to see than others. I remember the first time I really got a good ol’ look at them beauties, sittin’ in the desert in the middle of a fuckin’ war. Folk in cities, towns even, there’s so much light around them that they forget to look up once in a while, but when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, and you look up at them stars, it reminds you you’re still here, you’re still of this Earth. Makes you think, y’know, Ross, makes you think. Whatever happens, son, however our story ends tonight, if one day you’ll be lookin’ up at night and you see them meteors flyin’ by, remember there’s no way in hell you’re the only one seeing them, you ain’t gonna be alone, ever. Not really.”_

“You fucking peaced out on me,” Smith whispers, pressing up against his side. Ross reaches out and latches onto his hand, squeezing gently – but his heart’s beating with tempo too. It’s strange to think how he had never seen such a phenomenon, something so beautiful, until the world as he knew it ended. It isn’t even about taking the time to stop and look up at the stars, it’s about being in a place so dark that even the tiniest sparks shine bright. Ross has never bothered keeping track of the exact days anymore. But something about this event, even though it occurs in what would have been considered the middle of the year, something about if feels like things are changing. And so, in a way, he supposes he’s started to consider this to be the mark of a new year. “What were you two talking about?”

“We were just wondering what might be out there,” Ross murmurs. “Who else is watching this, I wonder?”

“Huh… that’s not like you,” Smith mumbles.

“Not very often,” Ross admits. “But I do wonder. I know we’re not the only ones left, we can’t be. It’s just I’d rather spend my time thinking on how to help us here, instead of going to search out there.”

“That’s fine.” Smith glances over at him and for a second Ross can’t believe how accepting he sounds. “It’s good that you think like that cause it balances me out. How I feel doesn’t change how you feel, and how you feel doesn’t stop me from wanting to go out and seek a better territory, a better life for us, for everyone.”

He sighs, and his fingers stiffen for a moment. “That’s not why I get annoyed with you at times,” he says, sounding tired all of a sudden. “It’s just… I guess, sometimes it feels like you’re not telling me how you feel, how you truly feel. And that’s all I want to know. I just wanna know the truth. That’s who we are, right? We tell each other shit we can’t tell anyone else.”

“That was me being honest with you now,” Ross points out.

That’s not the point Smith was making, Ross is well aware, but the silence that follows is better than the alternative. They finish watching the shower together, the whole group trickling away one or two at a time, cheered by the evening's entertainment, vastly different to that of the previous night, laughing with one another. Ross doesn’t join in for once, more content to let Smith lean into his side, taking his hand and toying with his fingers.

He’s still looking at Ross, hoping for more, but he simply can’t give him what he wants. He just _can’t_.

_(Don’t let him see that side of you, don’t let it fucking come out now, especially at this time of year –)_

“Smith,” he murmurs, a little uncomfortably – but Smith just squeezes his hand.

“I don’t wanna force you to do anything just because it’s what I want, I just wanted to put my thoughts out there in the open. Know I’m always here for you, even if I am an asshole,” he whispers back. “Okay?”

Ross hesitates – but Smith’s thumb, stroking across his hand, is soothing, and after a moment he relaxes and nods.

_That’s not you anymore_ , he tells himself, _you’re not scared all the time. With Smith, things are different, now. Five years._

Smith smiles, and moves in to kiss him. Ross turns towards him – it’s a brief brush of lips, as casual and relaxed as they would have been in their flat back in Bristol, sat together on the sofa, watching some so-bad-it’s-good movie Ross had found in the trenches of Amazon.

When they break away, however, he notices someone staring at them. That dog – still so silent, still so blank, not even a wag of the tail or a cock of the head. He watches as she turns back to her water bowl and laps it up a few times, keeping her gaze on them as they walk by, before just as quietly padding over to the corner where the steps meet the house, curling up and shutting her eyes without another glance –

* * *

2 a.m.

Ross lies awake yet again, sleepless.

Today had been better than some past years. He remembers too many times he’d simply blanked out every emotion, saving all his energy to plant that dumb grin on his face, trapped in his own guilt, trying in vain to pretend everything was fine and get the day over with, but often just ending up in silent tears in the middle of the night, unable to do anything but think back on all the memories he spends every day trying to put behind him.

The fact that he got up and worked with the others and was able to form strong relationships and prove himself a trusted individual during those initial months speaks volumes. It’s Smith, he tells himself. It’s Smith who’s been with him every step of the way, Smith who makes him want to smile and laugh and _be happy_ again.

But Smith is asleep now, snoring soundly beside him, and Ross stares up at the chipped paint ceiling of their bedroom. It’s been over twenty-four hours since he last slept now. His eyes are dry and burning, his head pounding, but he just can’t get his mind to rest no matter how many sheep he counts; it’s been a while since he last saw a sheep, he’s not quite sure if he’s even remembering them correctly. Poor things, they were probably one of the first to go.

He glances out the window, expecting it to be dawn – but only a few hours have passed since they went to bed, and he bites his lip. Everything feels strange in the middle of the night, in the darkness. Displaced and out of time, some liminal space like he’s frozen outside of reality, like nothing that happens is quite real.

_I need a walk_ , he thinks, and carefully climbs out of bed, trying not to wake Smith up. By pure memory he navigates his way down the darkened hallways towards the front door, only to freeze halfway there.

_Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch._

It’s coming up from the living room, and as soon as he hears the noise emitting from there he freezes, every instinct making him tense up, the hair on his arms standing on end. Fists clenched, he walks silently towards the door and pushes it open.

“Fucking shit!”

The dark shape leaps away from it’s place on the floor at Ross’ sudden entrance, scrambling backwards, keeping low, like a caged animal. The room’s lit up with the dim glow of the torches from the main gate. Ross is nearly ready to full on attack the thing, though he stops just in time – his own heart racing.

“What the fuck?” he hisses. “Who’s in here?”

There’s no reply, but the figure carries on scrambling back and even from here Ross can see how it’s shaking. And then it hits him like a freight train and it’s all he can do not to curl up in a ball and scream at his idiocy. He wraps his arms around himself, chest heaving as the figure, _the boy_ , backs himself into a corner, terrified.

“I’m sorry. I heard a noise. Here. I came to check.”

He can barely get the words out between his heaves. The boy doesn’t seem to be listening, anyway.

“I forgot you were in the house,” his murmurs, own voice sounding foreign to him, ghostly even. He’d been in such a daze trying to sleep, exhaustion clouding his mind. He’d simply reacted to what his delirious brain had deemed to be a threat. The boy’s just staring at him, burrowed away under the desk in the corner. He squashes up smaller as Ross takes a step towards him.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Ross reaches up to rub at his eyes. That’s when he notices something odd, that one hand is already occupied with something else, and the thudding in his chest goes faster, faster, faster, breath quickening every second that he stares at his hand. Holy _fuck_ , when had he reached for his knife? And there’s no one he can turn to here, only this stranger who he’s scared the shit out of, this stranger whose position makes him look so small and vulnerable, like a beaten dog waiting to receive another kick from it’s master. There’s no one here he can turn to and so he’s left with his own silent, raging thoughts. Usually he could prevent the onslaught, would be quick with a smile and a joke to push away the flood of pain that comes rushing in. The shouts. The screams. The _smell_. It’s like he’s drowning in it.

His head feels cloudy, like he can’t cut through the fog of memories to see the present clearly.

All he can say is, “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.” Over and over and over again, like a broken record. A broken, cracked, ripped to shreds and thrown in the fire, record.

Somehow he does manage to turn and leave. The stranger hasn’t moved. The shadows of the house seem ominous, more looming – like any moment he could turn and see someone standing in the dark. A man’s form. He used to be terrified of seeing ghosts as a kid. After his first kill it became all too real – the ghosts became too real. Too flesh hungry.

His feet take him back to the bedroom, back to Smith, his original purpose forgotten. Head swimming, he shakes the man frantically until he’s shooting up in bed. The sounds in his head are deafening, and he keeps seeing things move in the corner of his eye, but Smith is there, Smith is real, and he’s holding his face, eyes not leaving his own – and finally, unsettled and practically tearful, he finds himself choking out what had happened, before collapsing into Smith’s waiting arms.

* * *

_The problem is, it’s not all bad. If it was all bad he could just block that shit out – but there’s good in there too, good that reminds him if he hadn’t done what he’d done and he’d taken a different path without the bad, there would probably be no good at all._

_You’re not meant to go along with strangers on the street. But Trott’s cold, and hungry, and tired, and eight fucking years old, and when the older teen ruffles his hair and says, “You’re alright, kid. Come with me. I know somewhere nice you can stay. There’s others.” He hasn’t got much other choice._

_He’ll always remember stepping into the apartment block for the first time – it’s fucking freezing outside but they take the stairs up five storeys to the top and when the door opens he’s met with a rush of warm air and the babble of kids voices, laughing – he remembers being scared as he’s met with two dozen young faces, ranging from barely older than him to teens on the verge of adulthood – boys and girls with wary dark eyes like the other’s he’s seen on the streets. But clean, and well-fed, and staring at him with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. He barely knows Vinnie at this point but he still clings to him, childlike, like a kid on their first day of school, and Vinnie’s warm hand on his shoulder feels reassuring –_

_Feels like a big brother –_

“You’re not that scary, are you?”

The coyote glances up sullenly at his words. He’s been following him for the past few hours on the opposite side of the road. He doesn’t look like he’s that old and Trott half thinks he’s waiting to be given food.

“I’m not gonna be able to hunt much like this,” he tells him, and the coyote turns away, sniffing at the ground a little. In the back of his mind he worries it’s the smell that drew him here in the first place, to the blood that has been steadily eking out, staining his clothes, the cuts not too deep but incredibly painful nonetheless. Also, adrenaline has started to wear off. A weariness that feels far too close to exhaustion settling in.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going. There are no roadsigns that point to anywhere useful these days and he wonders how accurate a map like this can be. How far he’s already gone. If the truck had been found where he purposefully dumped it some way up a different road before backtracking and rerouting.

“It’s so quiet out here,” he muses after a moment.

The coyote’s still sniffing, on the trail of something.

“This is probably the furthest into the countryside I’ve ever been.”

There had been no time for rural day trips during his childhood, with his mum, with his foster carers, with the others. His mum once told him they’d lived in a small village in England for a bit, but he had no recollection; it had been a long time ago.

“Gotta keep going, gotta go fast, like Sonic. Y’know hedgehogs, boy? He was like a blue one of those, real fucking fast,” he chatters on, more to try and distract himself from the pain than anything. Trott isn’t sure why fictional characters come to mind at times like this. Call it boredom, or at least that’s what he’s fucking trying to tell himself he’s feeling. Better to have a travelling companion, to keep him talking, to keep from getting lost in the past. That way he might actually be able to keep focus on the road ahead when he’s certain, y’know, a bunch of pissed off individuals aren’t that far behind him.

“First game I ever played was Resident Evil. Some of the older lads scraped up some cash for it. Used to terrify the shit out of us little 'uns. We ain’t never seen shit like that before.”

Sometimes he’s grateful the undead in his world are of the classic sort. Fuck fast zombies, seriously, that shit was just unfair. And the animals appear unaffected – most suffering just as much as humans, like this little guy who’s probably more adept at digging through people’s trash than hunting wildlife.

“I’ve gotta get to the river, okay? Maybe if you stick around I might be able to catch some fish for us both. What d’you say, boy?”

The coyote’s ears prick up. At some sound from the woods no doubt, but Trott likes to imagine he’s listening intently to him.

“Yeah. Once I get to the river I can follow it downstream and be able to get my bearings a bit more.” He takes a moment to pull out the sketchy map, then adds, without looking up, “According to this there’s a place called Howardsville you get to eventually – there’s no scale on this but hopefully it’s not too far, otherwise that makes the rest of the journey a lot more daunting, it’s so fucking long! I mean, I knew America was big, but growing up in cities things can sometimes feel really squashed, it’s not until you get out here that you realise how much _nothing_ there is too. But you don’t really care about that, I guess. You’ll just go where the food is, not so much bothered by much else. You’re lucky, buddy, you never had to experience the disgust of seeing a Starbucks pop up on every fucking street corner. Then again, I suppose you don’t get to drink coffee either, now that is a shame. A coffee would be good now, fuck, I miss coffee.”

The coyote stares at him. He wonders if it’s thinking he sounds crazy – it’s hard to tell if it appreciates him trying to keep the conversation flowing when it lacks human expression. But Trott likes to think it’s looking at him with interest.

“Wish I could climb a tree,” he grunts – he wasn’t about to risk injuring himself further by climbing in his condition, no matter how tempting, and this part of the country was also distinctly lacking in trees, a lot of fields more than anything, overgrown farming fields. “No point surviving death by a thousand cuts if I go and break my neck falling thirty feet, right?”

His breath hitches. He shouldn’t have mentioned that, even jokingly. It’s too fresh, some of the wounds haven’t even closed up yet for fuck’s sake.

“Anyway,” he continues, tilting his head back and allowing the sunlight to warm his face. “I used to be a grifter, you know.”

Coyote boy’s back to his sniffing, but Trott’s pretty sure he’s waiting to hear the rest of the story. The last time he’d blurted that out, it had been to show up one of the older kids. Let them know he was not actually useless, that just because he was the youngest and the smallest didn’t mean he was in any way less capable.

He’s proud of that moment, as dumb as it is, but it makes him, of course, think about _back then_ , about the shit he’s done that he’d spent a long time trying to make up for – he scowls and continues on silently for a bit, aggressively trying to rid his limp away by sheer willpower, and the coyote doesn’t ask to hear any more.

It’s about five minutes later, or maybe it’s closer to half an hour – he’d kind of switched off for a bit there – that the coyote stops in his tracks and darts off into the undergrowth.

“Hey! Where’d you go?” he asks.

There’s the sound of rustling and a couple of insects fly off.

“You found something,” he guesses.

There’s no reply. But now he can hear a faint _squishing_ sound, one he’s grown far too accustomed to – of flesh being torn into.

“Huh, now that’s a fucking lucky find,” he says, getting close enough to see his walking buddy chomping down into a freshly dead deer. The coyote doesn’t growl at him, surprisingly, and allows him to crouch down to get a better look.

“I could sure do with some of that,” he murmurs.

He hasn’t eaten in over a week. Luckily for him he’d been in pretty good shape beforehand so hunger hasn’t hit him as hard as it could have, but being hurt _and_ hungry was never pleasant.

“Don’t suppose you’re gonna share that with me?”

The continuous side glare is all the answer he needs.

Trott nods.

“Well, I guess I should say thank you for not mauling me to death when we first met,” he says, and stretches, glancing down at his hunting knife. He could take it by surprise… but, “You’ve been good company buddy, but I better get going, I’ll leave you to your meal. Stay safe.”

The coyote briefly lifts it’s head as he’s leaving. Perhaps it had been expecting him to fight him for it’s food.

But enough blood’s been spilled to last him a lifetime, and he just doesn’t have the heart to add to it right now. It’s more important that he keeps moving, gets as far away as possible – away from Cally, away from Lucas, away from the whole bloody lot of them – however far he needs to go, he has to do it. Determination, a promise he’s made. Though sometimes it feels like he’s on borrowed time, like he was supposed to have died on those fucking streets all those years ago, and he’s been giving the middle finger to fate ever since.

_Stick with us, kid. You’ll be okay._ He was, he supposes, for a time; riding that coaster until inevitably the track broke off and everything ended in a broken mess of pieces. But there had been joy and happiness he’d felt during that time too, that hadn’t been a lie. It still wasn’t, even though he knew how that story ended now.

“Yeah,” he says to himself, and takes a deep breath. “Who knows? You might get lucky for once in your life – everything might go according to plan – from here on out it’s gonna be smooth sailing.”

* * *

Of course, things don’t go smoothly.

That would be far too easy. Far too _fucking_ easy, Trott had thought, as he attempted to stand up from the water he’d just been dragged from by this… this very tall human.

Oh, and that had gone splendidly well too. He didn’t really remember how he’d got from there to this room, with these other two strangers standing around examining his wounds, a smaller man in the corner watching on in a way that makes him think he’s their leader. His whole body felt on fire. Every time he moved his head the room would start spinning and a vile acid rose in his throat.

They’d been talking to him, in a language he assumes had been English but none of it made sense, and honestly the more noise the more sick he felt.

The door was shut – no big deal. People shut doors all the time, unless it was shut because _he was in there_ , now that was a bit more fucking concerning now, wasn’t it? Was that why it was shut?

When one of the men started washing out his wounds, he did pass out, briefly, and coming back around was like reliving the horror all over again – his heart was pounding, and his fingernails dug into his palms and –

“It’s okay,” was the first thing he remembered hearing properly, but the voice was distorted. “We just wanna help.”

It didn’t make sense. Things weren’t making sense. He wasn’t supposed to here.

“Sips, take a look at this,” was the second voice he made out.

He had started to shake, uncontrollably. That was bad. Too much movement would draw too much attention. You don’t survive by drawing attention to yourself.

“These have been intentional –”

“ _What?_ ” The third voice, but Trott drowned the rest of what he said out.

“Craig, he’s shaking more!” The first voice said, angrily. Or perhaps fearfully? Excitedly? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what was happening anymore. All he knew was that everything hurt, and everything was wrong, and he’d fucked it all up.

He has no memory of passing out that second time, or if he woke up at all in between, the only thing he knows now is he’s been left alone – the door’s still shut.

When he wakes he feels trapped, then realises he literally is trapped, there’s so many blankets on top of him. He doesn’t need these. It’s way too hot, he’s sweating so much, any movement is draining, and it makes a cough creep up his throat. He tries to stifle it, but that just leads to him coughing into his pillow for the next five minutes – quiet as he can.

So much for his damn plan, it’s gone to complete and utter shit. He’s so angry with himself he can barely think straight. He’d made a fucking mess of the first hurdle and tripped and knocked himself out on the second one.

He keeps looking back to the door. The shut door. He doesn’t like the door being shut. Why do they want the door shut?

He remembers his first night off the streets, curled up on a mattress on the floor, listening to the sounds of other kids sleeping and almost not believing it all to be real. But the door had been left open, and Vinnie had been there, talking quietly with some of the older kids. It had made him feel safer, knowing what was out there, _who_ was out there, and more importantly that he could get up and walk out if he wanted to. And Vinnie had caught him watching, and smiled, and it had been enough of a comfort that he could finally give in to sleep.

Sleep is the last thing he wants to do right now, he needs to figure things out, sort out his _fucking_ head, try and piece together the mess.

His main concern – who are these people?

Sure, they’ve patched him up, but that doesn’t mean they’re friendly. Just means they want him alive, for the time being.

He needs to find out where he is, which zone he’s in, which direction he fucking went in.

Secondly, how many of them are there? There were… there’d been three, he’s pretty sure that’s right. And then there was the fourth, the fourth one who’d rescued him. Or captured. Those aren’t necessarily separate answers.

His window’s slightly open, looks like it would fully open if he tried it and he can’t see any obvious deterrents stopping him from going up to it, but what he can see from his place on this couch is light. Instinctively, he holds his breath, seeing a small silhouette high up on a wall.

That could be a fifth.

For a bizarre moment he wants to laugh, thinking how he’s gone from one prison to another, but the tightness in his chest cuts that thought off abruptly, his eyes watering as he hacks up his lungs again.

_Shit, when was the last time you were truly free, though? When you were with Vinnie and the gang?_ A lot of time’s passed since then. He’s older now, facial hair, scars, tattoos, check all of the above – not a skinny little kid with a floppy fringe nearly hiding his eyes anymore. He's gotten bigger, maybe not as tall as he would’ve liked but certainly stronger – yet all that change means nothing when he’s lying here helpless, injured all over, possibly behind enemy lines, with a warmth radiating off his body that’s bordering on unbearable.

He needs to do something.

And he has a thought, now, his head clearing for a second, enough time for some coherent ideas to get through.

If the shut door’s aggravating him, he should check it – a good idea in theory but as he tries, really fucking tries to sit up, it’s clear his body’s not in agreement – _Oh, fucking hell. Get up you useless twat_ , he thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut as he realises _fuck, fuck, his ear_ , sounds are all wrong, it’s scary as hell as he puts a shaky hand up to the side of his head, not much calmer when all he feels is a thick and tight bandage – _so that could be a real fucking problem…_

But the door, right… the door. He breathes heavily, and pushes himself up again. He’s moving like a faulty robot. The pain is bad but also he’s covered up like he’s ready for his sarcophagus, restricting his every move.

_Jesus Christ, stop being a baby, it’s not that hard, just get to the fucking door!_

By the time he’s manoeuvred to sitting on the edge of the couch, he might as well have run a fucking marathon. He takes the chance to glance out of the window again, but the silhouette hasn’t moved – just standing there, unaware of the incredible feat of athleticism he was demonstrating back here.

It’s then, to his horror, that he notices his jeans are missing as well as his shirt. The rate he snatches them off the floor you could’ve been forgiven for thinking he was in a public place.

_These are going back on_ , the voice in his head growls. _No matter what._

Cue another five or ten minutes of him huffing and panting and almost passing out, struggling to put on jeans that are not only still damp, but seriously dirty.

Fuck, now he’s cold. Freezing, in fact. Hadn’t he been boiling just a few seconds ago? He struggles into the t-shirt as well, because for some dumb reason his brain tells him that putting on yet more damp clothing is a good idea.

Now, back to the damn door, it’s right there, he could spit on it if he had the lung capacity. All he has to do is get from here to the door and he can give himself a gold star.

_This life’s hard, but it’s harder if you’re stupid_ , the favourite quote of his mother’s always did have a habit of taunting him at the most inopportune moments. He wonders what she’d be doing if she’d lived to witness the end of the world. Probably still be out there, managing to con people away from their money somehow. She wouldn’t let a few scrapes and bruises stop her.

_Alright, here we go, stand up on your fucking two legs!_ He pushes himself up with as much power as he can muster – which ends up being too much.

There’s a mocking laughter in his head, as he propels himself onto his hands and knees, but he barely registers it. He finds a surge of energy – like time has stopped, like it’s someone else’s strength pulling him forward, getting closer, closer, closer to the door, not stopping to catch his breath, as if his life depended on this very action –

_(That’s been most of your actions recently, hasn’t it –)_

And eventually, painfully, he gets there.

He spends a moment slowing his breathing down, and half wonders if he left a trail behind him, like some disgusting, bloody slug. But he’s here now, he’s completed his daring mission – _first time for everything, eh_ – now the next step, see if he can open it, which to his upmost relief he can, that’s good, that means –

Wait.

There’s someone coming, he hears sounds of someone shuffling, and it feels like he’s stirring from a deep sleep.

_They’re coming after you_ , a voice insists, and it’s coming from the direction of his one good left ear so the noise seems so loud it jolts him into a frenzy. He stares through the crack in the door and then hurriedly shuts it.

_What do I do? Think quick, idiot!_ The voice in his head snaps. The footsteps are drawing closer, and he takes a few heaving breaths, glancing around him. His eyes feel dry and sore, like he’s been constantly crying even though he hasn’t.

It’s too late to run; he won’t make it far anyway.

Think. His mind is desperately reaching out into the darkness, grasping for anything.

_You need time. Give yourself time. Then you can think more – right – the door – it can hold them off, the table – there – you can barricade it, you just need a fucking moment, fuck, fuck, fuck –_

He scrambles across the floor to grab onto the table legs, testing them gently. It’s a lot heavier than it looks, and that’s good in terms of preventing entry, but he’s breathing too fast, barely able to control it.

But he tries, God damn, he fucking tries. Starts to push with all his might, nudging the table inch by inch, tasting blood in his mouth when he bites down on his tongue.

When the door opens, suddenly and ferociously, it feels like – like someone’s turned off just a screen monitor, like he can’t _see_ anything, doesn’t know what’s happening, but still feels it all going at full-power. His pounding heart, how fast he’s breathing. His whole body shaking.

There’s an atmosphere of horror as he deciphers the figure standing there, tall and strong and imposing and he has a _knife_. He starts to scramble away, backing up, never exposing his back, pain pushed aside by fear.

_It’s over._ He squeezes his eyes shut. This is a nightmare and he’s reached the finale, and now it’s becoming a horrible reality and _this can’t happen, you weren’t supposed to let this happen –_

_I’m scared._

“What the fuck?” the man hisses. “Who’s in here?”

Trott momentarily feels a surge of confusion at the words. Of course they knew who was in here, that’s why they came in here – it’s all a trick, it’s some sort of trick. It’s a fucking con. He realises too late he’s backed himself into a corner, helplessly, and curls up as tight as he can, burying his face into himself like if he could hide from the world everything might be okay.

_It won’t be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, honestly surprised anyone bothered to read at all haha
> 
> Not sure when the next chapter will be, got a busy week coming up as well as being a full-time carer which is why I can't make promises... but I am really enjoying going through the process of writing again so who knows!


	3. Chapter 3

_The worst part is, it’s entirely his own fault he’s in this situation. The way he feels he might pass out, the tightness in his chest and gut, like every breath isn’t getting enough air in – he wouldn’t be here if he’d simply resigned himself to his fate. He’d done what he’d done in reaction to being scared, so fucking scared, feeling so helpless, and now he’s in for days, years, of being scared and helpless._

_He thinks back to that first day a lot. Pure terror. The glares and the jeers and the slamming of hands against metal. How small and alone he’d felt._

_“What’s your name, kid?”_

_“Trott.”_

_“You wanna survive in here, Trott?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Alright, that’s what I like to hear. I can make that happen. All ya gotta do is do as I say –”_

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck –”

Trott curls up as small as he can under the table and watches, heart racing, as the man hides his knife away and walks in agitated steps back and forth. After a moment he lowers his head between his knees, then wraps his arms around himself, trying to stay quiet and slow his heavy breathing.

“Fuck. Shit. I’m sorry. Fuck.”

Both the pain coming from his wounds and inside his chest are intensifying – and he feels the chill a lot more down here. It’s just him and this stranger and he couldn’t be freaking out more. His heart’s slamming in his chest and after a moment he peeks up a little, only to recoil immediately and curl up even tighter, seeing the other man now crouched on the floor too, clutching at his hair.

_They’re gonna find out who you are. They’re gonna find out what you’ve done – fuck, they probably know already and they’re deciding what they’re gonna do to you, you’ve really fucked everything up –_

_What the hell is he supposed to do?_

_How did he get here again?_

Everything is confusing and strange and different. Everything in his body hurts and aches with every breath he takes and he’s remembering what it feels like to have your stomach clawing desperately with hunger. He wants to move back to the couch. But he’s too scared – tired, and hungry, and uncertain about what this man wants with him, and holy fucking shit everything hurts so much. It’s too much.

A whimper escapes his mouth.

_Idiot! When are you gonna learn to keep quiet?_

_Wait… footsteps. Is he leaving?_

It’s hard to tell what’s happening, balled up protectively like this, but something about the other man’s reaction… something’s going on there, something that Trott is clueless about, and that is the scariest thing of all. He doesn’t like not knowing what someone is about. Ignorance means they could be doing anything, and he won’t be prepared for it.

And now… now there’s other people entering the room, at least judging by the footsteps, but the only thing he’s sure of is that they’re gonna be angry. That guy had it in for him, he’d made him angry, angry enough to pull a knife on him – he should never have got up, should’ve pretended to be asleep – there was going be a consequence – there were always consequences for your actions. He leans against the wall, head tucked down as far as he can get it. He can feel himself shaking.

_You’re dead, idiot, you’re a failure and you’re dead. If you don’t die here, you’ll die when they throw you out and –_

_And –_

And what? What exactly is going on here? They’ve not yelled at him, yet. They’ve not threatened to kick him out and there’s not even been any threats or warnings about what him being here means. Perhaps that was all yet to come. Or worse – hurt him, hold him hostage, maybe even kill him. Even if they don’t, he’s not supposed to be here. There’s no way being amongst a strange group turns out well for him – unless he can somehow convince them he has some value to them.

_Even so, you’ve proven you’re just a weakling. They will see they won’t have much use for you. They definitely won’t want you staying here if you tell them who you are._

He bites his lip, remembering the river – how the man had grabbed him, pulled him to safety. _Why would he do that?_ How hard it had been not to struggle at the sudden arm around his chest.

_These people are not like your own. But who they are exactly perhaps doesn’t matter, you’re from your group and you’re a stranger in their own. Cally’s code means they’re the enemy. Cally with her stupid fucking code._

_Just how far had that river carried him to land in a territory whose people didn’t attack him at first glance?_

There’s the sound of someone inching their way closer to him and he peeks up again, gingerly. Sound from his right ear – what’s left of it – is still incredibly dulled; it makes all noise coming from his other side that more accentuated and inflicting. A man he recognises sits down a few feet away to also lean back against the wall, and Trott’s eyes blink wider.

At first glance he seems like a typical survivor in this post-apocalyptic world. Rough-shaven, strong, with a small scar on his chin and dark marks under his eyes that have been permanently etched on after one too many long nights. Young, Trott notes – about the same age as himself, a bit older than the one who patched him up, not quite the one who’d brought him in’s age. Handsome, with sky blue eyes that crinkle as he smiles and brushes a stray curl of reddish hair from his forehead. But there’s something in those blue eyes, something else not quite right, or rather not quite _there_ , that makes Trott pause.

And what had this guy done? Something risky, something that put his own life in danger to save Trott’s, actions that he struggles to relate to the rest of everything he’s used to.

Still. The man doesn’t move away, or make any attempt to move closer, and after a moment shuts his eyes. Trott’s a little unnerved to begin with, and he turns and looks out from under the table to the rest of the room, a hint of fear stirring in his chest. Any moment now, they will show their true nature, he needs to be ready. _Any moment now._

_You could run._

There’s a fucking thought. He would laugh if the idea wasn’t so spectacularly pathetic. Run –if he was any good at running he would’ve never been caught up in this shit all those years ago.

_Run and you won’t just be running from Cally and the others, and lurkers, but from these guys too. There’s no way out. You completely and utterly fucked it and all you can do is cower and hide and wait for it to end._

It’s at this moment that his head really spins. He slumps against the corner wall and slides down, hugging his knees to his chest. As he moves he wonders when his body became so heavy and slow, when his lungs and skin became so hot, and he fights back a pained cry.

He knows he looks pathetic, huddled on the floor like a scared child – entire frame shaking, curled in on himself like if he hides his face, somehow the others won’t be able to see him and maybe he’ll be safe.

He doesn’t know how long he’s like that. He doesn’t really have much sense of anything – but eventually there’s a faint feeling of pressure behind his back and under his legs and the sound of stuff being moved around him. He tries to tune it all out and ignore the weird floating sensation he suddenly gets, trying to huddle up to the newfound warmth that’s by his side in a desperate attempt to cling to the one source of comfort he can find, but before he can fully latch on his head spins one last time and everything fades blissfully to nothing.

* * *

By the time he comes round again it’s sunny outside, and he’s back on the couch underneath a mountain of blankets that still can’t quite rid the chills that shake him awake. First thing he notices, the door is ajar this time, and even though he’s sure he doesn’t have the strength to get over there, it is a comforting image.

Secondly, and rather shockingly, there’s a man sat on the floor, and Trott must stare in confusion for a very, very long minute before he remembers him.

“Oh, hey there, you’re awake!” the man suddenly sees he’s watching, jumping up like he’s got springs in his feet. Trott stares dazedly back, even if inside he’s scared as hell and kind of wishes these blankets would just swallow him up and put him out of his misery. The man’s face is bright with eagerness, but Trott notices his eyes are red, like he’s been holding them open too long. He’s too weak to do much else. But the other man doesn’t seem to be expecting much out of him.

Still he tries to sit up, more to try and make himself seem a little bigger next to this giant of a man, but that’s hopeless, of course, when his skull thrashes around in his head with so much force he has to shut his eyes and just concentrate on breathing lest he throws up everywhere. Trott blinks as his lungs protest the heavier inhales. The man’s eyes are darting around the room, flicking this way and that until he spies something and makes a beeline for it, out of his view. Trott swallows a few times – the movement feels awkward and rough, the pain from his chest and abdomen is red and angry, and there’s a constant, duller ache that’s got the rest of his body covered from head to toe and, after a moment, the shivers return again in time for the man to kneel down next to him and offer him some water. _That_ , out of everything, makes Trott flinch back.

“Hey, sorry, my bad,” the man hastily apologies, and Trott can’t really get his head around as to why he would, trying hard not to show just how fucking freaked out he is.

_He’s the one who saved you, he must’ve had a reason_ , he thinks, but the man’s not giving anything away right now, other than clearly wanting him to drink. He could break Trott’s neck if he wanted to, so drinking from the offered cup even though he doesn’t want it feels like his safest option. The man’s got a hand under the back of his head to help him tilt it a little. Even that’s enough motion to send a spike of pain through his whole skull, he’s surprised he doesn’t blackout.

“I know you probably don’t feel up to shit, but it’s best if you drink something. Then you can go back to sleep – you just need a lot of rest and you’ll feel better in no time. And about earlier… I’m really sorry, we didn’t mean to scare you, you see… I mean, not all of our group were aware we had someone in this room and seeing you startled them. But they really, honestly didn’t mean you any harm. I _promise_.”

_You’d be a fool to trust him,_ Trott meets his eyes. Or rather he stares at a point just above the man’s eyes but he’s pretty sure the other man can’t tell the difference, and it’s helping him stay calmer than he is at such close proximity. _You don’t know anything about him. He could be anyone._

“Shit, I’m sorry. I should probably introduce myself. I’m Alex… Smith – I mean, that’s my full name but everyone calls me Smith,” he rambles. “You’ve had a pretty shit time recently by the look of things, haven’t you? I’ve got so many questions for you, it’s been ages since we had someone new! But don’t worry I’m not gonna ask you now even though I’m really fucking curious – not gonna lie, not just cause you’re still not well enough but because I don’t want Lewis biting my ear off… uhhh, fuck, sorry, I – uh, wrong choice of words, _ugh_ I’m a fucking idiot.” His cheeks go an impressive shade of red as he runs a hand through his hair. “I give you permission to slap me when you’re on your feet. Anyway, I know you’re probably still really freaked out and all but you’re not gonna be able to clear your head to figure things out unless you get better, so help yourself and drink this glorious river water you were having a nice dip in.” 

Shit. It’s hard to argue with that – but fucking hell, Trott’s had a _history_ of being taken in by people who have a way with words, not a _great_ one – it’s hard to put his trust in this stranger, even for a moment. But he is thirsty, and his throat is dry from coughing so much, so he allows the man – Smith – he allows Smith to help him take in a few gulps before he lowers him back down. He’s blinking heavily now. _Useless. Too fucking tired._

“You really have had a shit time,” Smith repeats, softly. “I know you’re scared. I would be too. I was scared in the river. I almost couldn’t handle things, with that biter. I don’t usually slip up like that but for some reason everything went kinda, I dunno, blank. One stupid mistake and I could have got us both killed. I’m glad I didn’t.”

The man scowls, and it’s pretty obvious his mind’s elsewhere. Trott swallows, nervously – his throat feels a little better after the water, not quite so much like sandpaper.

Something approaches then, something totally unexpected. It looms behind Smith, eyes boring into Trott, who stares back blearily.

If he’s unsure about Smith, he’s utterly baffled by this dog. Trott’s seen dogs here and there – they’d had a few who’d be used as trackers. But this little thing isn’t that, doesn’t look like the sort you’d send out to hunt down – _now don’t fucking go there now with this guy right here_ – it looks more stuffed toy than animal, a little white fluff ball, gazing up at him curiously. Real curious. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to lean towards the cloud on legs, moving as carefully as he can.

_You a boy or girl?_ He wonders, trying to get a look. _You look like a fucking girl. You been sent here to guard me too then, huh?_

Smith lets out an exclamation of surprise – a short, high-pitched bark of his own. It’s a far cry from the man who’d sent him into a delirious frenzy last night. That guy had seemed dangerous – strong and intimidating and as lethal as they come. But with this guy here, decked out in shorts and a pink t-shirt, hair messy, jumping at the tiniest dog – he almost can’t reconcile that they’re a part of the same group.

“Did that fucking bitch come down this way” Another voice demands. “Because if she has there’ll be no chicken tonight. I understand that you don’t like being brushed, little lady. And I would much rather be spending my day doing more productive things, trust me. But some people are worried you’ll look horrifically ugly if we end up shaving you because of all the matts. So save us both some time. Hey – oh you better not have gone in here –”

“Hey Lewis, yes she has come in here, how come you can’t even control a dog this small? We were having a great chat until she interrupted us,” Smith says to the man Trott vaguely remembers, standing, shocked in the doorway. “Don’t worry, we haven’t actually been talking, I’ve been talking and given him a drink of water. Is that okay, your majesty?” he asks, with a little flourishing bow.

The little dog almost seems to look at him in amusement – her expression or posture doesn’t exactly change and maybe he’s feverishly projecting. But there was something in those black eyes before when she’d been staring at him and there’s a different something now as she looks between the two other men and back to him.

Smith’s still so close to him he’s sure the other man must be able to feel him shaking, but it’s the other he looks at – Lewis who had been here earlier, Lewis who he somehow feels is the one who’s in charge here. Lewis who might possibly have Trott’s fate in his hands.

The other man stares back at him. The look of surprise is still present and Trott can’t tell if he’s happy or angry. But the silence doesn’t last long, as Lewis blinks and then breaks into a smile.

“You were still meant to get Craig the moment he woke up. He’s the doc here – though I s’pose you can’t go too far wrong with water.”

The two continue to bicker playfully but Trott can no longer pay attention as he shuts his eyes with a silent gasp, jolting involuntarily – for a moment he doesn’t know what the matter is, and can only lie there in a panic, breathing so fast he feels almost dizzy. The loud barking does nothing to help either – and immediately after other various noises of urgency, his stomach rolling as he remembers too late that the horrible feeling he had, yep, that’s him about to throw up.

“Fuck me!” Lewis exclaims. “That was a close one!”

Trott’s busy emptying the contents of a river into a plastic bowl, too relieved to be embarrassed. Smith’s sat down next to him, and has an arm around his back. He’s shaking even more now, too, but having that presence there does help calm it a little. When he’s finally finished he takes the bowl back, away from Trott, but keeps one arm around him as both him and Lewis argue about who’s going to get this Craig guy.

Smith apparently wins, because after a moment it’s just the two of them again. His arm’s not left Trott, and he’s more confused than ever – _why help him? What’s going on here, who are they, surely they can see he’s going to be nothing but a drain on their resources like this –_

“Huh, she must like you,” the man says, thoughtfully. “If it wasn’t for her barking us two idiots wouldn’t have been ready for that. Y’know until now I don’t think anyone’s heard her bark yet. She’s a new arrival you see, got here only a day before you.”

Trott swallows a few times. He’s still trying to hear a hidden threat in the man’s voice – knows that sometimes those who appeared the least harmful were in fact the deadliest – but he gets nothing.

For the first time he tests his vocal chords – wants to ask why, what do they _want_ from him, what they’re _waiting_ _for_. The moment he goes to make a sound however, his chest punishes him severely by sending a long series of horrific coughs up his throat.

“That sounds worse,” the man murmurs, watching him close, and Trott has no other option than to lean back heavily onto him when he’s finally done. He feels a sudden shot of something scarily close to comfort – it’s been a long while since he’s been around anyone who acts so _gentle_. He’d grown used to the idea of putting up and shutting up, even though up until his early teens he’d been a tactile little shit. And now, now he almost resents the guy, because he’s starting to sense the other man is just as in the dark about who he is too, but he has the audacity to treat him with a kindness, treat him in a way that makes Trott almost believe it’s real. It’s not real. He’s not that deliriously dumb yet, for it to be real you have to care and this man doesn’t care – Trott’s not part of his group. He’s not family. It’s something he learned a long time ago, care was something you earned, it was something you had to prove yourself worthy of, and it could so easily be snatched away.

Still. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the assistance, real or not it’s nice to have a human radiator sitting next to him.

“You might have noticed we removed your wet clothes again. I’m sorry, but you can understand why, right?”

_Yes, I had. Assholes._ The man must read his answer in the glare Trott flicks his way, because he laughs lightly, twists to reach down onto the floor. Trott tenses – but his hand just returns with an item of clothing.

“You wanna try this on?” he asks, holding up a large black hoodie.

Trott eyes it up. It’s about three sizes too big, but that would probably help right now. He’s got a feeling this particular item belongs to the man and wonders again if there’s some sort of catch. But the man – Smith – is waiting, one arm still supporting him steadily, and after a moment Trott sighs and gives a small nod. The man smiles and holds it up slow enough for Trott to see what he’s doing before easing it carefully over his head.

“Oh no, I’ve lost you,” he jests.

Trott can’t help himself, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly and he’s grateful his reaction is hidden by the darkness he’s currently surrounded in. There’s just something so utterly ridiculous about everything that’s going on, and it doesn’t help that the other man is grinning like a Cheshire Cat, finally pulling the hoodie down far enough until his head pops out – how obviously he’s doing his best not to knock against any of his bandages. He doesn’t have to do that.

_Don’t be stupid. You’re sick and you’re injured. You’re not thinking right. Get those thoughts out of your head. You know better._

The dog’s sitting on the floor looking up at them. Trott meets her eyes, feels a funny sensation in his chest, and then slowly, and purposefully, looks at the couch.

“Whoa! When did you get so friendly?” Smith exclaims, as the little thing jumps up to sit next to them. She cocks her head to one side and her ears twitch. She’s got her side pressed up against the blankets, and Smith, still behind him, lets out a chuckle. Trott swallows hard and extends his hand, having to wriggle it out of an extra few inches of sleeve, unable to hide the smile this time as the pup nudges her snout into his fingers, tail wagging excitedly.

“Well would you look at that. She does have a personality after all. What did… I mean, you must be a dog whisperer or something.” He holds out his own hand hesitantly, laughing out loud when he also receives multiple licks, rewarding her with a scratch behind the ear. Looking back to Trott, he adds, “Everybody else here’s been trying to get a reaction out of her. I’d tell you all their names but there are quite a lot of them. Just know they’re all a bunch of softies when it comes to cute things. Lewis, the skinny fucker who was just in here, he’s kind of in charge but he’s no dictator. An annoying little prick, no doubt… but a good guy. Craig – he’s our doctor, he’s the one who’s gonna get you on your feet in no time. And then there’s Ross – he’s the one who unintentionally barged in here last night and he’s really, really sorry about it. Ross is the best of us. Nothing ever gets him down for long. We can always count on him to keep us smiling.”

His voice sounds warm as he talks about this Ross guy. Trott’s been listening very carefully, one intact ear cocked up like the little dog’s, freezing briefly at hearing the words “ _a lot of them_ ”.

“Jesus,” Smith jumps, as Trott breaks into another series of coughs. Each one feels worse than the last, his eyes squeezing shut as tears spill from the corners. “That’s some fucked up shit.”

Trott closes his eyes for a moment. He hasn’t forgotten the terror, the instant feral-like fear when that man had walked in. The way he’d stood there, the rage he’d been projecting, shit that Trott recognised in a way that resonated with so many memories. It’s certainly not the most horrendous experience he’s gone through in his lifetime, but… that sort of thing sticks with you.

What Smith is telling him isn’t right, the man he’s talking about – Ross – whatever Smith is saying isn’t describing the man Trott had encountered, and it’s left him with a feeling that he can’t get over and a curiosity he can’t push away. He’d think it was another lie meant to fool him if he hadn’t heard the warmth in Smith’s tone. Somehow, he knows that’s real. Even if everything else is a lie, that had been real.

Smith’s gone all quiet, but Trott can still feel his presence as he lowers him slowly back on the couch again. After a moment, he whispers.

“I know you won’t believe me,” he says, voice wavering a little. “But you turning up is the best thing to happen in a long time. Not the you being hurt part. I… I was hurt pretty bad when I arrived here too but Craig patched me up. That was a really shit time and you’ve got it even worse than I did so I can’t imagine… I know this sounds like I’m pulling it out of my arse but… I’m excited to meet someone new and hopefully get to talk to you when you’re better. Ross always says I dream too much about what and who’s out there. Maybe he’s right. Ross is usually right about a lot of things. But it’s better – better – well, it’s a different way of thinking to want to learn and explore more in this new world of ours.”

He goes silent once more, slowly sliding out from his position next to Trott.

Perhaps he thinks Trott had been asleep for all of that. He could easily have been. Not because he was bored by it all, far from it, but because he’s so fucking exhausted and almost all his concentration is being used on keeping his breathing steady. But he’d heard everything, nevertheless.

What he makes of it all, however, is a completely different question that he hasn’t got the faintest fucking clue about.

And now he’s going to cough again. Shit. _Can I just fucking quit already –_

“ – aren’t exactly abundant,” a new voice is grunting, and he comes to the startling realisation that he must’ve passed out at some point. “Maybe what we have is enough. I… I’m not an expert in this shit. Hell, even if I was we don’t have any equipment to see how bad it is –”

“Okay,” the voice he recognises as Smith cuts in, making Trott think not too much time’s passed. “We work with what you do know.”

“What I know is there’s only so much we can do. He’s sick. The injuries alone aren’t enough to kill him but it’s what they can lead on to.”

There’s a pause, a long one. Eventually, Smith adds, “So it was a lie, that whole thing about him being fine, you were just saying that. Why would you say that if you didn’t think –”

“I was giving you the facts that I had at the time. I wasn’t lying, I wouldn’t about a thing like this.” Trott struggles to hide the flinch at the sudden sharpness in the other man’s tone; he forces himself to relax into the cushions and at least attempt to look asleep. “Not to mention, he’s a lot worse today than yesterday. Probably didn’t help he spent a good portion of the night freezing on the floor. I still don’t understand what exactly happened there, with Ross coming in, surely he didn’t forget? He’s not the type to go wandering around the house at night. I’m trying my best to keep this stranger alive without you yapping in my ear the whole time. I know you’re only worried. I want to figure out what happened just as much as you do.”

Part of that is a lie, but he doesn’t know where. Knows that the voice had come out too smooth and too confident at one point. Knows that’s the first thing you learn when you want to lie convincingly to people. You had to be so confident that you almost believed it yourself, it was one of his mother’s first lessons.

There’s another lingering silence, and Trott feels his lungs tightening up again.

“Ross had a few restless nights,” Smith says. “He told me he doesn’t even remember much up until the guy was down in the corner. Probably sleepwalking or some shit, thinks he’ll be fine after a good night, blames me cause I snore too loud. What happened was unfortunate but it’s not his fault.”

_Sleepwalking, huh? Not a fucking chance._

“Of course it’s not his fault for this, it’s most likely been building up either way,” the other man murmurs to Smith, who sighs.

_Who’s building what?_

“Great. That’s… awesome news.”

Trott can tell they’re concerned about something. He takes the chance to peek open one eye when the attention’s not on him, sees the two lingering near the window, silhouettes highlighted by the sunlight streaming in. The two of them seem at a loss for a few moments – Smith looks kinda cross, and it’s hard to tell what’s going on in the other’s mind, who he recognises as the young guy who’d been trying to take care of his wounds – he’s forgotten the name. Finally, they turn their heads to Trott.

“Oh, you’re awake again. Sorry, I hope it wasn’t cause of us loudmouths. You’re probably pretty fucking tired of us already, huh?” Smith apologises.

_Why's he keep apologising to you?_ Trott blinks heavily.

“I’ve gotta be honest, and this probably won’t surprise you, but you’ve got a chest infection. Quite a bad one. Craig here… Craig’s thinking it might be pneumonia _but_ ,” he hastily adds, “You’re gonna be fine, I’m gonna make sure of it. Hell, if I had to spend so much time with Craig it’d make me sick too.”

The other man straightens in indignation.

“I’m the fucking doctor here,” he snaps, but it isn’t serious.

“If by doctor you mean first aid trained then, yeah, I guess. Honestly, you can never seem to get the staff during a zombie apocalypse. They interviewed Craig three times before they decided to give him a chance, and he was the only candidate. Guess you could say first impressions weren’t the best, he was in a bush wearing a dress when Lewis first –”

“That is not at all relevant right now!” Craig exclaims. It takes Trott a second to realise that he’s actually, genuinely embarrassed; makes him realise that wherever Smith had been going with that was a true story. “I wish I could go back and leave that bullet in you a little longer!”

“Woah, harsh –”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my sincerest apologies,” the man says in a funny voice, like he’s some old English butler.

Smith chuckles. Craig pulls a face. And Trott feels like someone’s given him drugs.

“But you know what? I’ve got a plan and Lewis isn’t gonna like it cause of this small horde issue and how we’ve all gotta stick together around this time. But, fuck it, I’ll go alone if I have to. I’ll just need someone to give me directions cause I wasn’t there when they found it.”

“I know exactly what you’re talking about, and no, he’s not gonna like it. Also, going alone would be extremely stupid.”

Smith’s fists clench into themselves then, after a second’s thought, he crouches down close to the couch again – near Trott’s head – and smiles at him.

He flinches, but it’s not as severe as before. He’s slowly growing used to this guy getting in his space. It’s funny, there’s something about him, but his head’s pounding and his chest’s burning too much for him to think on it fully. But it’s not a bad something. He’s pretty sure he’s convinced on that, but it’s strange all the same, and _you can’t start thinking this guy’s safe. He’s not safe. Not safe, not safe, not safe._

“I’m gonna promise you now,” the man says, waiting for another bout of painful coughs to subside. “I don’t care what they fucking say, I’m promising you. I know you don’t know me.” He lets out a soft laugh. “And I know I don’t know you. But people always say once I get it into my head I want to do something I won’t rest until it’s done, I guess this is one of those times.”

He watches Smith carefully as he speaks, but when the man smiles, nods, stands up, and walks away, his eyes don’t feel the need to track him. They shut almost instantly, yet it feels like the vice around his chest has eased, just a little, with every second he drifts further to unconsciousness it gets a little easier to breathe. He thinks if he were to die right now it wouldn’t be so bad. He was comfortable, these people weren’t hurting him, there was a nice doggo, and maybe… maybe one of them… maybe he wasn’t completely bad.

If this is dying, it’s a hell of a lot better than he could ever have hoped for. Or deserved.

* * *

There are people outside. They’re talking, been at it for a while, not that close, getting increasingly louder, like they’re arguing, but Trott barely cares as his mind cuts itself off from the rest of his body and drifts to streets he’s not wandered in a long time.

This is a nice neighbourhood. Nice would actually be putting it lightly – despite the fairly modest house sizes, each looking like they’ve been hand-crafted by a different architect – the area is picturesque and quiet, and he can see a few of the residents who are good-looking, young couples and kids with expensive clothes and golden skin playing in neatly trimmed front gardens, or riding their bikes with friends along the streets, glancing up to watch him pass but not seeming bothered by the presence of a new, strange boy in their fancy neighbourhood.

The sky is clear blue, and the sun casts a dazzling glow over the houses, but still – this is not what he had been imagining when they told him he was moving to LA. A neighbourhood like this, a home, to be able to forge a new life for himself. He’ll never fit in, he thinks bitterly, as he eyes up cars that would have once been viewed as a rare and exciting target, now they’re parked up in every fucking driveway, and he no longer has to worry about bringing in his share and what the others might need from him. What will happen if he lets them down.

Still. It’s good to get out, to be on his own for a bit. He turns down another street and sees a large tree – it’s a nice spot to sit down. He wraps his arms around himself and picks at the sole of his new sneakers, frowning– it feels weird to be wearing something that probably cost more than all the clothes he has ever owned.

A police car rolls slowly by, and he automatically stiffens – but the officer driving looks bored; a large, older man who seems to be eating a burrito as he drives lazily past. Clearly it’s just some sort of routine patrol, or he’s passing by on the way to somewhere else.

_You could go up to him and start a conversation_ , he thinks. _He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know who you are or where you’ve come from. You’re just a normal kid. You could talk about normal kid stuff, too, whatever the hell that is. He wouldn’t even take a second glance at you._

For a moment, it swims into his head – a vague fantasy or himself going up and telling the cop everything he’s done in his life. An amused expression and waving him off with a laugh – telling him he has a very active imagination and to run along and go hang out with his friends – no judgement or suspicion, no handcuffs. _You should get a job as a writer. I’ve got a cousin who’s looking for young talent in Hollywood._ His cousin happens to look exactly like Steven Spielberg.

He shakes his head, scoffing.

_You’re having a laugh. You’ll never be anything – living here isn’t gonna erase who you inherently are. Even your wealthy new guardians can’t pay to rewrite history. Best case scenario – when you move out in two years at least you’ll be somewhere a lot warmer than Chicago._

_Long as they’ve not grown sick and tired of you and kicked you out before then._

The car leaves, taking his daydreams with it in a haze of stinking exhaust, and he closes his eyes for a moment, picking distractedly at the hole in the sleeve of his black hoodie, the only item of clothing from his old life he’d been allowed to keep, grimacing when he manages to make it bigger by accident. His mind drifts to every little anxiety. The folk in this area. What might be happening in the upcoming weeks, when he’s supposed to start at school. What his first night will be like. _If_ he’ll sleep tonight. If the others have been shipped halfway across the country or are still stuck in that nightmare of a place.

_God, please let the little ones be somewhere nice and safe. It’s not fair he got out first, little Makayla and Warren had only just turned eight last time he saw them – same age you were when you joined. Think how scary everything had been back then. Why couldn’t they be here instead of you?_

His phone vibrates in his pocket suddenly, making him jump so hard that he lets out an audible noise of surprise. He pulls it out, frantically.

_Mia_ , the screen reads, and Trott can’t help the flash of disappointment he feels. For a brief moment he’d thought… he _hoped_ , there might have been a different name there.

_She’s gonna ask what you want for dinner – fuck, what do you say, what do you say –_

_What’s the normal answer kids give around here –_

He knows keeping her waiting will only make her worry, and answers the phone a moment later.

“Hi.”

“It’s alright, son!” A voice rings out. Huh, that’s not Mia’s voice, it’s a man’s voice, and he’s really fucking loud, and sounds much closer. “It’s alright, you’re okay, you’re gonna be fine. It’s just me, it’s me – it’s Sips – my name’s Sips, and I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? You with me now?”

Trott swallows, and tries to fill his lungs. He didn’t know he’d been breathing so fast.

It’s a struggle to remember who he is, as in, what time he’s in. Everything had felt so real, it was like he had actually been back there, leaning up against that tree, in that neighbourhood where he never thought he’d belong. Like when the man’s face comes into view, he’s still fourteen years old and still, despite so much shit, so naive in so many ways.

“You’re running a high temperature, okay? You’re pretty sick right now but we’ve got some guys heading out in no time to get you the stuff to make it all go away.”

“H-hurts…”

“I…” the man blinks. There’s a pause, and Trott doesn’t know why the man looks so shocked, but he knows better than to try and call him out on it.

“I know. I’m sorry. We’re gonna help, I promise, son,” the man replies after a moment. “And you’ve got a little guardian angel here watching over you, haven’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Trott says carefully, feeling his lungs on the verge of giving up on him again. She’s a good dog – has a sweet nature about her even if there’s something so very, very sad about her expression – sat on the floor now, gazing up at him.

“Yeah, Smith isn’t gonna give up that easily,” the man continues. “When that guy’s got his mind truly set on something nobody can get in his way, so if he says he’s gonna find the stuff to make you better he’s gonna find the stuff to make you better – he’s riding out right now to get it, and that’s saying something cause he’s pretty allergic to horses.”

“Oh.”

“Yep. Avoids them at all costs if he can. In fact,” the man adds, “I’m surprised he hasn’t carried out with his threats yet and shaved them all – jeez, imagine how hideous that would be.”

“Uh-huh –” Another break to cough, feeling like his whole body is being hacked at. “M’ gonna die?”

Again, he’s not sure why the man’s face goes all slack, wants to laugh if it wasn’t so rude to do so.

“I was actually thinking you’re nearly over the worst of it,” the man replies eventually. “Just a little bit more of this fucking shit and then you’ll be on the up and up again. Like I said, Smith is going to go on a little trip to this old hospital we haven’t had a chance to check out yet. I asked him to bring back some of that laughing gas, too. That’ll make for a fun evening. And Ross is going with him also to make sure everything goes smoothly and Ross is one of our best fighters. He killed more biters in his first year than all of us put together. Sounds like a good team, right?”

Another long pause. He wishes he could stop shaking.

“You’re a tough little fucker,” the man says quietly. “I know you’ve got enough fight in you to pull through.”

“Kay.”

“Tonight,” he encourages on, “everything’s gonna be a lot better.”

Trott squeezes his eyes shut. He feels the tightness in his chest pick back up, but his tone is surprisingly calm as he asks, “M’ I ’n trouble?”

“No. You’re not in trouble. What makes you think that?”

Trott blinks, and looks up at him. He’s not joking – his face is genuinely curious, it’s almost like there’s an element of concern in there, and his dark eyes seem kind.

“I lied,” he says.

“What did you lie about?” the man asks, and Trott sighs a little.

“Said I wanted to have sushi for dinner cause I thought I should say that… But I didn’t like it.”

“Oh, right…” the man says, and there’s something funny in his voice, and Trott thinks maybe he’s still not totally aware of his situation. “Well you’re in luck. We’re fresh out of sushi. Got plenty of eggs, though. You like eggs?”

“Yeah.”

The man lets out a breathy laugh and Trott lets out a shaky breath. He feels something land on his head. His first instinct is to flinch. But it’s fine – as the pressure moves between his hair it begins to feel quite nice. He feels _at ease_ here – even if he’s sick and tired and memories keep getting all jumbled up, for some reason he’s not scared any more.

* * *

_You’d think at some point you’d get used to the terror, when it’s so constant._

_That it’d stop having an impact, stop hurting so much, stop making your heart strain in your chest like it could tear into a million pieces, like you’re breathing so fast you think your lungs might break, like your whole body seems to have locked up like stone, braced for shit._

_It never gets easier. It’s just as bad every damn time._

_When he’s twenty-five years old and runs for his life for the first time along unfamiliar streets, when he’s holding his breath hiding under a burnt up truck because he’s got to stay silent, stay calm, keep him and Ross safe while others are torn apart around them, loved ones calling out for each other, no don’t go out there, it’s too late, you can’t help them –_

_When a few months have passed and he’s hiding out near the main gates. Hears the growls of the biters bashing against the walls, presses his ear flat against the other side and tries to listen out for one voice. Closes his eyes and imagines what’s going on out there, how many have died, which family’s going to be torn apart this day, what if today it’s him – then he’ll be left all alone and no one will care because everyone’s going through the same shit. Is this all there is to life now? Is everyone just waiting to die? All hope lost, ripped apart and devoured – what are you doing here, fucker, didn’t you know there’s toilets to clean, everybody has a job to do, or we could give you some real practice and send you out right now –_

_When Ross returns one day after an even longer time than normal and has a black eye and a split lip, barely makes it to the bed before collapsing, let’s him know he’s not hurt too bad, just tired, falls asleep with a smile and a tight grip around Smith’s fingers, still alive, still breathing, later talking with another, when Smith is supposed to be sleeping, you done pissed off the wrong people Ross, but there’s others who want to help, we need more guys like you to take these fuckers out, it’s about time for a fucking change around here –_

“It’s fine. I know. It’s my choice to go.”

Smith grits his teeth as he hears Ross, exiting the house, talking to Tom. He’s waiting with the horses by the gates. A crossbow slung across his back, hunting knife on one side and a pistol at the other. Given that it’s a new location, they’re both loading up on weapons. He has no idea what trouble they might run into, but it’s wise to always be prepared for the worst, and also because he looks fucking cool decked out and all like this.

It had taken a while to get Lewis to give him the go ahead, not that he needed it, he would’ve gone either way, but it’s nicer to know there will be no lingering resentment now. He had Ross to thank for that, after a few minutes of speaking alone with their leader, Lewis seemed more pliant.

“You good?”

He turns to see Ross standing behind him. He’s armoured up and Smith can see he’s carrying the same, if not more, weapons as he is.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says, and climbs up onto Zeus impatiently. Ross mounts up beside him and furrows his brow.

“Jesus Christ, Smith. What the hell is that?”

“What?” Smith echoes, and follows Ross’ stare. He grins then, freely and mischievously, like a kid who’s just been caught after pulling a prank. “This, _this_ – he’s not gonna miss it.”

“Put it back – we’re not going to use it today.”

“Fuck that, you don’t know what’s going to happen. This’ll solve all our problems if we run across a horde.” A lie – a homemade explosive will perhaps be handy in a close call, but it would also be even better at alerting every other biter to their location. “Fine, but you go and put it back, I’ve had enough of Tom for one day.”

Ross sighs. He takes the grenade from Smith and jumps down with another glance at him – probably, Smith thinks wryly, worried he’s snuck in another one somewhere.

“He pissed?” he asks, when Ross returns a moment later.

“He says, first and foremost, that if you needed it he would’ve given it to you. More pissed at himself that you were able to take it without him noticing.” Ross kicks Motley into action before Smith has a chance to reply, speeding up to a fast trot the moment he’s out of the gate without waiting.

“South?” Smith asks dumbly, once he manages to catch up. He’s so God damn _relieved_ to finally be doing something that has some real purpose, that was important and would make a difference. He knows exactly where they’re going – memorised the route over and over – the terrain, the distance, the best way to approach the hospital a group of them discovered early this year but never got round to exploring. Long-range observation had shown it was crawling with biters outside. _Outside –_ could be a piece of cake if they slip in unnoticed.

“South,” Ross repeats. “But we stop first and scan the area. We sneak in – or stealth kill. There’s a good chance there’s gonna be more trapped inside, especially on the lower floors. If it’s not obvious, I’ll get close and try and find a way up to the top. Craig said what we need should be on any of the wards so higher the better. If it gets too dangerous, we head straight out, I’m sorry but that’s what’s gonna happen. I’m not getting us killed over a few antibiotics. Be confidently cocky, not cockily confident, y’know what they say.”

It’s weird to hear Ross, he sounds so damn serious. If he wasn’t such an easygoing, laidback guy, Smith thinks – not for the first time – that he’d make a damn good leader, with his skills, that unfaltering positive demeanour, those Prince-Charming-blue eyes.

_You know he’s right. You’ll be no good to anyone if you end up dead. It’s not like you even owe this guy anything._

But he’s shaking his head before his thoughts really catch up to his body.

“No, I… I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

“Smith.” Ross shoots him a glance. “You don’t _have_ to do this. None of us would think less of you, it wouldn’t make you _weak_. God knows if you… if it comes between choosing a strangers life or yours, you know which –”

“You say that, but you wasted no time in saying you’d come with me.” He kicks Zeus into a slightly faster pace as the road opens up, waiting for Ross to level again, having to raise his voice over the sound of hooves hitting road. “I… I need to do this, Ross. I need to be the one to get it. It’d fuck me up being far away, not knowing what’s going on. I can’t quite explain it. I don’t know if _I_ fully understand. I just know I need to do something. It’s like a fucking splinter – you can’t just leave it to heal over. You’ve gotta pull on that shit, even if it hurts.”

“I came because you wouldn’t last ten bloody minutes without me,” Ross grunts, and Smith barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, well… you might be the more skilled fighter, but what was all that you were saying about how I give the best callouts. Admit it, without me watching out for your ass your dog vision would’ve been the end of you long ago. We survived those initial weeks cause we work as a team, I’m the manager who tells the talent what to do, and the talent goes and smashes some fucking biter heads in. Doing nothing is not an option here. I promised him, Ross, I promised I’d help. It’s something I have to do, it’s like an instinct, like killing a biter for the first time was an instinct, even though I didn’t really have a fucking clue what I was doing.”

He pauses, swallowing, looking across to his partner. He’s mentioned that day before, but he never goes into full detail – not for any particular reason. He supposes it’s not something he likes to dwell on, and it’s long in the past, but even just talking about it now feels like a chasm inside him is suddenly opening, sucking his soul down into it’s yawning depths. There’s a hot, metallic taste on the back of his tongue.

But Ross is gazing at him – steady, calm, eyes like an open sky. It makes it easier to breathe.

“I love you and I love all the rest of them,” Smith continues. “Meeting the guys was like meeting long-lost family. Never thought I’d want to have to deal with another family, not when my real one is probably dead, or worse – but those fuck-heads are what keeps me going. And being with them – with _you…_ it’s the only thing keeping me sane, really. I hate feeling there’s nothing we can do. That we can’t do something to make the world better. Leave behind something that doesn’t bite tongues from throats or tear out eyes from skulls. Something… something fresh. I know it’s stupid, that we’re not anything special, but –”

“I hear you,” Ross says, and Smith knows he does. “I hear you.”

“Settling with what we have threatens that dream, Ross. Accepting our fate, that this is it… not taking new risks just cause we’ve found temporary safety, living too much in the moment without even considering what future we could make. It’s not me. I can’t _fucking_ settle for this. If anyone deserves a better life, it should be you.” His hand clenches tightly around the reigns. He wants to grab Ross’ shoulder, but resists. “Call it what you want – recklessness. Bullheadedness. But I can’t just accept this. I’ve gotta take the risks, even if it hurts. Gotta finish what I started on this one.”

“It’s not your mess,” Ross says firmly. “And none of this should fall just on your shoulders. You’re just one man. No one person is going to be able to make a change, no matter how much they try. We’re only as strong as those around us are, you’ve got to consider everyone’s thoughts. But whatever we end up doing, I’ll be there with you every step of the way.”

Smith smiles. He knows he will – knows that if there’s one thing he can count on it’s that Ross will stand strong by his side, through thick and thin they’ve been there for one another and there’s no one he’s trusted more in his life. Let’s himself, for just a moment, melt away his burning desires a little, and feel something close to contentment instead.

Still. When they finally exit onto a road that would’ve once been a highway, it’s down to business.

“We gonna take the main road?” he asks, as they slow to a halt.

Ross bites his lip. It’s by far the quickest route, but also the most open.

“Tom thinks it should be fairly safe. By this time of year’s standards, at least, seeing as we just cleared out a load and it was quiet before that… and even if we do draw attention we should be able to outride any trouble. Of the biter kind, anyway,” he adds cautiously, and Smith nods.

“As much as I hate to agree with Tom, I wanna get there as quick as possible.”

“No one’s travelled on this road in a long time.” Ross frowns a little. “There were… there were a lot of cars on the other road.”

“Terrifying,” Smith scoffs – although it’s true. The last time he and Ross had been on a road like this together they’d been driving at full speed in a four-by-four with a busted windshield, it’d been so dark that they’d barely stopped in time to prevent them crashing into the automobile graveyard – he hasn’t thought about it in a long time, but it had been scary. His memories of that time are… fuzzy, as always, but he remembers enough to picture the biters that had come stumbling towards them from what would have essentially been a death trap when shit first hit the fan, so many people trying to escape all locked close together. All illuminated in their headlights, every fucking one of them. God, there had been so many.

There’s something weirdly surreal about it, something that starts to pick at the insides of his brain like an itch he can’t reach – but Smith’s had this feeling before and has learned nothing ever comes from it except his own annoyance, so he shakes it away with a practiced diversion.

“If we take the main road we might come across a gas station that still has some decent alcohol.”

“Which Simon can use to add a little spice to our meals, which is what I’m sure you were thinking of,” Ross smirks – and Smith can only shrug in reply.

“Yeah, exactly what I was thinking. We might as well go that way for now, and turn off if we come across any problems. Getting in and out of the hospital’s gonna be the hardest part, so we might as well give ourselves as much recon time as possible.”

“Agreed,” Ross says, and sighs. “Guess we’ll just see what happens. I’m honestly surprised we haven’t run into any biters yet, or seen any – there’s none on this road for as far as I can see, not like last time.”

“I’ll take it as a good omen,” Smith says. “Maybe it’s a sign their numbers are dwindling, and things’ll be easier than previous years.”

“That’s a nice thought.” Ross smiles at him – then reaches out and grabs Smith’s hat off his head. Smith yells, indignantly.

“Hey! Give it back, you bitch!”

“Come and get it. We both know I can out-horse you any day. Not because I’m a better rider but cause you give Zeus a fucking headache and he refuses to do what you want him to purely out of spite.”

“Fuck you,” Smith laughs, swinging his arms wildly – Ross rolls his eyes and smirks at him playfully, and for a moment, it sends in another flash of a memory, for a moment, it reminds him of a different time –

* * *

Smith scans the tree line for any movement but sees nothing except the odd squirrel as Ross stands beside him looking through binoculars.

The back entrance of the hospital is a series of parking lots and tiny roads. A number of apartment blocks – old residents accommodation. Without the binoculars he can see biters covering the area, standing almost completely still as if in hibernation. The air smells thick and acrid, but Ross is brightening the mood by flicking his head like a horse every time a fly lands on him, with an exclamation of, “You bastard!”

_(Get the fuck away from him, bastard. Leave him the fuck alone –)_

He blinks his eyes shut hard enough that he can feel tears form, holding them closed until little beads of imaginary light start dancing around, almost blinding himself when he snaps them open. It happened again. He’s spent the last six years of his life looking forward, refusing to get stuck in what was and working and striving for what could be, because he knows that’s what’s important and he knows that’s what matters and he’s never been one to get caught up in his own history –

Like the only time he’s properly thought of Redwood has been when he’s trying to remember anything of use he might have heard from someone there, except there are never any clear memories, so where these snippets of reminiscence are coming from he has no idea and maybe they were never real at all and they’re all just in his head –

_(Oh, fuck, listen, I need you to listen, you’ve got to hide if you see them coming –)_

He grabs a stick off the ground. Shoves it into the dirt and rotates it around, slowly, watching it dig away at the earth until it’s deep and secure, gets some satisfaction from seeing it stand up by itself. A satisfaction like he can fill the hole in his chest with something as simple as a stick, a hole that hadn’t been there before, he’s sure of it; he’s always been absolutely sure of himself, his _whole_ self, self-confidence born when he was young, since he stole his father’s credit card and used it to buy presents for his parents anniversary cause he knew the idiot had forgot, since he had run with Ross, run from Redwood, not looking back, even when he saw everything burn and burn and burn and burn and –

* * *

It’s late in the afternoon by the time they clamber up onto the roof and peak down through the skylight into the corridor, but it’s still plenty bright and clear enough to get a full panoramic view. The countryside is genuinely stunning, and it takes his breath away – just a little, it’s been a while since Smith could see so much of the world. If he doesn’t look down he can almost imagine the earth’s been reborn into a paradise, almost. There’s something soothing about looking out and recognising parts of the land, seeing where their home is, like this is truly his country now.

They’d made it up without any issue, working in silence to slip past the biters unnoticed, scaling the fire escape with relative ease. Smith glances towards Ross just as he slides his knife into the thin gap around the edge of the glass pane. He’s got beads of sweat on his brow, his hair plastering to his forehead in places, cheeks warm and rosy, white shirt sticking to his skin.

After a moment there’s a click and the skylight pops up. He exchanges a glance with Smith before lying flat and dipping his head in.

“Ward’s empty. Least in the main corridor.”

Smith lies flat as well. He drops his head, slowly, and peers down the abandoned hall – listening out, waiting to see if any danger’s going to make itself known. Hesitant. Nervous, even. There’s something odd about this lack of confidence. Smith can only chalk it up to the fact that he’s never been a fan of hospitals, even when they were filled with the living.

“We gonna sunbathe here forever?” Ross asks, voice soft and hushed.

Smith smirks up at him and moves to dangle his legs over the edge.

“I’ll go down and catch you,” he says, teasingly. “Gotta help you little guys where I can and use my far superior height to my advantage – the hero I am. But maybe let me scout around a little to find something we could stand on to get back up, you think?”

“I suppose,” Ross murmurs. He takes his pistol out and hold it firmly. There’s something almost uncertain in the look he sends Smith, like he’s trying his hardest not to disagree, and Smith frowns a bit. “Stay in my line of sight.”

“Yes, Sir, if you wanted to check me out just tell me,” Smith jests.

Ross glares at Smith then, who’s shocked into staring back dumbly. Now that he pays more attention – he’s right, Ross seems on edge. It’s hard to tell, but it’s there – a stiffness in his shoulders, a tightness to the line of his mouth. Not like the standard nervous caution that he would expect, but a sort of genuine unrest and apprehension.

_Maybe he’s still trying to shake off his tiredness. He didn’t exactly get much of a nap earlier._

“We should see if we can find you a towel,” he mutters after a moment. “Otherwise you’ll have melted before we get back. In your line of sight – right – got it.”

“You sure you don’t want me to go down first?” Ross asks, and Smith’s the one who stiffens now. He doesn’t answer, just drops the eight feet or so down, tries not to scrunch his face up too much at the force of the impact, and when he looks back up, almost challengingly, Ross doesn’t have anything more to say.

“Looks like there might be a stack of chairs down by that corner,” Smith relays. “I’ll go and get them.”

“It’s pretty fucking dark down that end.”

“So you don’t want me going down there cause it’s dark? Then I might as well just stand still.” Smith glowers up at him. “Hey, remember that time I lead us through a city filled with biters when neither of us had a clue what we were doing and we armed ourselves with a broken keyboard?”

“I mean, yes, that was quite memorable,” Ross replies, lips twitching in amusement.

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I’m debating. I need you to work with me, please, I’m the one who’s been on the most supply runs.”

Smith nods, but he still can’t shake his odd feeling – it’s easy to pretend it’s frustration, to cover it up with annoyance and arguing and sticking his tongue out in defiance – but he knows, deep down, it’s _confusion_.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything less than certain in himself. It’s been even longer since he’s had the sense that Ross is not quite being entirely open with him, which is a ridiculous thought to have. He’s not himself – a stranger’s feelings that come and go, and when the group needs him more than ever no less? Ross is the last person Smith wants to feel vulnerable in front of. It feels uncomfortable, nearly humiliating.

Before long he’s wandered down to the alcove. He’s got his knife ready now, and his pulse in his wrist is beating hard where he’s strapped the armour a little tight. Without his glasses everything is a fraction unfocused, and he walks over to the chairs before glancing into the nearest open room, quickly. Smith pauses, and rubs at his eyes, feeling a headache forming. He’s not sure if it’s from the heat or some aftereffect of the intense debating earlier.

“I’m coming back,” he says, shortly. He turns away from the room and bends his knees to lift the stack. They feel heavier than they should be, unsteady in his grip. There’s a moment when he has to stop and shut his eyes as an image flashes up in his mind, gone before he can fully take it in. But the feeling of it lingers, like when you pull a thorn from your foot. It’s weird. Something he can’t shake off. Not for the first time, either. At first he’d ignored it. Now the thorns were sharper – he doesn’t remember when it started, it feels like it’s recent and old news at the same time –

“Smith, fucking behind you!” Ross yells, and Smith freezes.

“I… wha…” he murmurs. A groan rings out in reply, a hand reaching out to touch him, and Smith is completely frozen. Snapped completely to attention, alarm rising up at the sight before him, but unable to move his body in the slightest. He doesn’t flinch when a loud shot rings out and the biter drops to the floor, losing its balance. He doesn’t even complain when a sudden force barrels into his side and shoves him to the floor, chairs tumbling out in front of him.

Ross finishes off the one that had fallen and moves to take on the one behind it, knife in hand. There’s something vicious in the way he grabs the biter by the hair and stabs it through the skull, wrenching the knife free with a savage yank. Like it makes him feel good to destroy it, to let something inside him that’s built up fritter out.

The biter falls but another flicker of movement in the corner of his eye draws his attention. He turns and grits his teeth.

From the room, that same room Smith had quickly glanced into – like they’ve all been called into action in mindless offence – around a door that had, in fact, been concealing a far larger room than expected, a crowd of biters stumbling forward, stirred by the noise and movement, beginning to get closer, struggling and crawling towards them.

“Shit – _shit_ ,” Ross snaps, backing away. Smith has regained partial use of his limbs and is already sliding back on the floor. Ross grabs him by the arm and yanks him up and away.

“Get behind me. Back to back. Don’t spread out. If something comes from that direction _tell_ me,” he orders, in a voice Smith barely recognises to be his. Switching a full one-eighty from the usual friendly Labrador to a wild, fierce wolf.

There’s nothing coming from his side, so he casts frequent looks back, until he can’t bring himself to look away, and Ross is too preoccupied to notice him staring. Time speeds up and slows down in segments, seconds, minutes, flashes of the past, here, now, the present fading in and out, he’s struggling to make it all line up in the correct order. A sudden horrific pain that shoots through his side, but when he looks down there’s nothing to be seen.

The biters saunter forward, coming at Ross from all angles. He quickly darts forward, takes one down efficiently then steps back to Smith. Another moves forward – repeat the process, huffing short sharp breaths through his nose; his armour is clanging and restricts his movements a little, making each swing more of an effort. Step forward, attack, retreat, moving fluidly like part of a machine, like he’s been doing this his _whole life_. He’s doing it. He’s almost killed them all when one big fat fucker lurches towards him, tall and heavyset, and he slashes at it, meaning to get it through the eye, but it swerves at the last minute and he misses. His blade cuts through part of its jaw and gets stuck, wrenching from his hand as the biter turns. Barely a moment for him to say “Fuck!” before it’s upon him again, lunging at him with a snarl. One hand comes up to ward it off, the other trying to reach for his gun, and they grapple for a moment as he struggles to hold it away from him.

This close Smith can smell its breath, stinking of carrion, can see the burst vessels in its dead eyes and each spot of decomposition on the mottled skin. The heavy biter thrashes and gets one arm free, grabbing Ross’ shoulder and bearing down on him. With a shout he stumbles to the side, nearly falling under its weight, and his movements become more panicked when the teeth close around his arm –

Bang!

Smith stares down the barrel of his pistol, dazed. The biter crumples forward and falls onto Ross, knocking him to the ground. For a moment Smith can’t breathe – like the wind’s also been punched out of him and that same biter’s weight is also crushing down on his chest – then he gasps in a heaving breath.

_Fuck, fuck, there’s still two more._

His limbs don’t feel as heavy and his arm obeys when he goes to move it, standing protectively over his partner – thank God for armour, he thinks, thank God.

The closest biter is coming at him, almost tripping over the living and dead body on the ground. He should conserve ammo, so he grabs for his knife, realises it isn’t there, he’d dropped it earlier, and kicks it back instead, knocking it to the ground. His boot comes down heavy on its skull. It’s decomposed enough that is smashes under the blow like he’s stepped on a grape.

There’s a brief second of hesitation when he locks eyes with the last one. Its teeth snap inches from his face and for moment he actually thinks he is going to die –

And then Ross drives his knife into the thing’s head, hot blood and ichor splattering across Smith’s face; he screws his eyes shut, lips pressed tightly together, terrified that he’s going to get it in his mouth, be able to taste it.

Ross shoves the body to the side and Smith wipes frantically at his face, trying to get the blood off. He’s shaking; it’s like he’s going through the motions of killing his first biter all over again. Been a long time since he had an escape that close. His fight in the river had been nothing like this. It’s a bit of a wake-up call. His heart slamming in his chest.

Ross grabs his hands and pulls them away from his face, stares into his eyes intently. He’s shaking too.

“You okay?”

Smith nods and opens his mouth and tries to speak but all that comes out is more shaky breath, like he can’t think of anything to say. And then, dimly, “Are you?”

Ross doesn’t reply immediately. His blue eyes bore into Smith, stormy and turbulent.

“I don’t –” he begins quietly, before shaking his head, hands tightening around Smith’s almost painfully, voice raising rapidly. “You were meant to be watching my six, do you fucking realise how dangerous it is to leave your back unguarded? You can’t make mistakes!”

He looks furious, breathing heavily between bared teeth. His grip on Smith’s hands gets tighter and tighter until it’s too much and Smith has to pull back.

“You’re hurting me,” he whispers, almost scared to maintain eye contact.

There’s a strained silence, just Ross staring at him, panting, shaking. Suddenly he looks exhausted… or rather Smith notices for the first time the huge shadows under his eyes, eyes that are red-rimmed like they’ve been rubbed raw. The silence lingers, then Ross releases his hold and takes a deep gulp of air.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though Smith barely hears it. “I… that won’t happen again.” He lowers his head, reaching to rub at his eyes again. “We should get what we came here for and get out before more arrive.”

Smith nods, like it’s the only thing he’s capable of right now, and Ross’ gaze turns a little softer.

“It’s alright,” he tells him, but it comes out rattled. He squeezes Smith on the shoulder and then pulls him into a brief, awkward sort-of-hug. It’s never felt awkward to hug Ross before but he still can’t help clinging to him in the moment – he can feel Ross’ heart slamming in his chest, as fast as his own is beating – and they stay closer to each other as they scout around the ward and start searching for what they came for.

A brief look in the once biter-filled room shows the bare remains of some poor fucker. It’s impossible to tell if it’s old or new but they’d certainly all been feasting happily together.

_If Ross hadn’t been quick enough that could’ve been you. What’s wrong with you? When did you become so useless?_

_It’s this weird feeling’s fault. You’re letting it distract you too much._

“Hey, Smith. This is the stuff, right?” Ross asks, grabbing his attention.

He’s forced open a door that had already taken a heavy beating, located next to what would have once been a nurses station. He’s got a box in his hands that reads ‘ _Ceftriaxone_ ’ and the mere sight of it is enough to lighten the heavy weight on Smith’s shoulders. At least this whole fucking trip was going to be worth it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Take it all and then anything else that we can fit. Who knows when we’ll be back here.”

“Definitely not any time soon.”

“Yeah and who knows what trouble might find us this winter. At least knowing we’re fully stocked up on meds will be one less thing to worry about,” he adds, feeling like a bit of normality is returning, but also sees Ross tense a little. Still – he doesn’t comment, just starts putting whatever looks useful into his backpack. When he finally does speak, it takes Smith by surprise.

“That hat.”

“What?”

“That hat you’re wearing.” Ross has stopped what he’s doing, but he’s still staring at the meds. “Where’d you get it from? You didn’t have it from before, did you?”

Uh, okay, this is kind of random. He had almost forgotten he’d been wearing a hat. The absolute last thing he would have expected to talk about after what just went down is his choice of fashion. But he likes the thought of brushing Ross aside even less, so he tries to think, taking it off his head and examining the dark orange cap with what looks like a white cow with big horns on the front.

He tries, really fucking tries, but comes up blank. With a shrug, he says, “I dunno. Must have just picked it up at some point.”

Ross ducks his head lower, but he doesn’t comment. Smith snorts.

“Anyway. This is just one of many. We’ve got quite a fine collection of hats back at base. It’s one of the few things I don’t have to worry about the size of.”

“His name was Colt,” Ross blurts out from nowhere, “but we all called him Griff, short for Griffin. God, those army guys had some weird-ass nicknames – sometimes they seemed like a bunch of teenagers trying to come up with code-names for the rest of us, make us feel included, I suppose. He… he was a good friend of mine. Taught me to throw knives back when I first joined them. We were really close, but he… well, he died, shortly before we left. It’s thanks to him that we were able to get out at all. He was like that. Put everyone else before him and always seemed so relaxed as he did so.” He glances up at Smith and gives a wry smile. “He was a bit of an idol of mine, I suppose.”

Smith is quiet, attempting to make sense of everything Ross is telling him.

“You… you don’t remember him, do you?” Ross asks after a moment. “I… it’s like – it’s not like you would, I only knew him cause I had the same shifts, other than that we didn’t really cross paths much.”

Smith bites his lip. _Switch. Cactus. Husky. Blue._ Names popping into his head without him having a clue why. Half-formed faces that blur and merge together, laughter ringing in his ears. Faces that become blood and fire, then biters in turn. Some that scream. Some that seem to come right for him.

“I don’t think so,” he answers, carefully. “I remember people from Redwood but no one who stands out. But it wasn’t like we were doing much socialising, like you said. We both got given roles and we carried them out and other than that we just had each other.”

“And… I don’t remember really. Was there someone called, um… what was it again? Rocco?”

“Rocco.” And God, does _that_ name make Smith shudder. Make him think about cold ice eyes and a hand digging into his shoulder, a whisper that swirls round and round in his mind that he can’t quite understand, a shadow that crawls up from his feet and digs into his sides. It’s jabbing at the base of his skull. He doesn’t know what will happen if it breaks through. “That sounds kinda familiar. Why’s that name feel strange, Ross?”

Everything he’s feeling is right there in the tightness of his voice, and Ross is studying him. Smith knows he doesn’t miss it.

There’s another long pause, but then…

“Don’t worry,” he says, softly, and bites his lip. “I – it’s just the stress. I think we’re both just stressing ourselves out after that scare.”

“I don’t know…” Smith falters, uncertainly.

“I know I’m letting my mind wander too much. Look at me, getting distracted by hats. We should get going, okay?”

Smith stares at him, then sees the smile. Calm spreads through his chest like a cool breeze, spreading tingling to awaken his numb fingers and toes.

“Yeah, better pick up those chairs,” he says. “I’m not boosting your fat ass out.”

Ross laughs, eyes crinkling, and the calm spreads further.

“C’mon,” he bats at Smith’s head playfully. “The sooner we get back the sooner you can act the hero for everyone.”

“What makes you think I’m going to boast about our resounding success? You think I’m just in this for the fame and the adoring fans because you would be absolutely correct there. All the old celebrities are gone, it’s my time to shine.”

“If anyone’s gonna become famous, it’ll be –”

“Don’t you dare say Tom. I can take a joke and all but that’s a step too far. There’s only so much my poor heart can handle – just the idea of his ego growing any bigger makes me quake. Just think, how much worse he would be if he realised people liked him –”

“Actually I was going to say the little lady,” Ross interjects. “And I’m not talking about the human ones.” He slings an arm across Smith’s shoulders, flicks his hand up to poke at his cheek, cackling when Smith tries to bat him away. They move in a far more comfortable silence back down the ward corridor, fortunately not bothered by any more biters, then it’s up and out onto the roof.

“Nice. We made good time. Be back before you know it.”

“You think this’ll be enough?” Smith asks, as Ross pulls out the binoculars, giving the area a wide scan and checking their route back will be clear.

“He’s gonna be fine,” he murmurs, and there’s a funny thickness in his voice. “He’s got you looking out for him, after all. I just hope this isn’t going to bite us in the back. That he’s worth this effort.”

Smith bites back a retort, because he knows he’s right. That despite how harmless he’d been, at the end of the day he was injured and sick, and being in that condition could make the worst of people seem okay.

Still. He didn’t get that feeling from the guy, but… Still.

Instead, Smith watches Ross. He finishes scanning their surroundings and grabs his bag from the ground – then pauses for a moment, hand hovering over the hilt of his knife, face blank.

“You’ll miss out on catching up with your sleep if we just stand around,” Smith blurts out after a moment, and Ross’ mouth twitches.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’d be a bloody tragedy.”

Smith tilts his head, quizzically. Ross stares at his knife, the one he’d been using earlier, before taking a deep breath. He pulls out a pair of sunglasses Smith didn’t even know he had on him and puts them on, and the mere motion seems to pull his shoulders straighter, like they’re connected with invisible wire. He walks to the edge and gestures for Smith to follow. He takes charge as they head back down the fire escape, jumping onto the roof of the out-building. Leading – Smith’s following his every move. Without any more problems, they make it back to the horses in no time.

_Am I going crazy?_ The thought lingers in his mind as they walk – still there from before. With his fuck up in the hospital and then these weird feelings that seem to be getting more frequent each day, a tension that even Ross’ smile and laughter can’t quite rid from his shoulders, though he’s trying his best to keep up appearances. But it doesn’t stop him from asking himself the question, or drive away those names that are now taking up permanent residence in the back of his mind.

_Griff. Rocco. Griff. Rocco._

* * *

That night, Smith takes a very long bath.

He heats up the water as hot as he can get it without scalding himself and submerges his whole body under the burning pool as though if he waits long enough the heat will seep into his bones and he might feel something he understands again. If he closes his eyes he can picture himself in the middle of a blazing fire, watching everything around him burn away. Everything inside him. Some sort of purgatory.

It’s late at night and Ross is already asleep. Even before they’d arrived home the younger man had looked about ready to pass out in his saddle, and he knows for sure he’s asleep this time as the quiet snores echo in from the bedroom, complimenting the sound of light summer rain that patters against the window.

_It was raining the night you ran. Don’t you remember? Under cover of darkness, under a storm, while everything burned, you finally slipped away. You thought they might catch up with you and finish the job or you’d crash and burn or be taken by biters when there were no walls to protect you. Isn’t that how you felt at the time? You thought it was all over. You were going to die._

The thought rushes through him like a crash of thunder and he stares in the mirror, clutching at his towel. He barely recognises himself, his hair hanging limp and wet and sending dripping streams down his skin. Like he’s spent so long in the water he’s washed his very being away.

_This isn’t you, getting caught up in your own thoughts. That’s all it is. Just thoughts. They don’t mean anything. They can’t harm you._

He can say it as much as he wants. Doesn’t change the fact he wants to punch the mirror and feel broken glass against his skin, smear blood like paint over the glass until his face his covered in nothing but red, until he doesn’t have to look into his own eyes anymore and wonder who on earth is staring back at him. Eyes that look unsure in himself. Eyes that look scared.

He’s so lost in his head as he’s headed out into the hallway to ask Craig how his patient is doing, he almost doesn’t hear Tom come in through the front door. When he turns and sees him standing in the corridor, he gets the fright of his life. Dressed all in black, with his hood up and dripping wet, for a moment he looks like some sort of ghost from a horror movie.

It’s gone midnight by now. He knows Tom didn’t have night watch again.

Tom hasn’t seen him yet. As Smith watches, he slowly reaches up and pushes his hood back, then takes off his glasses, and rubs his thumb and index finger into the corner of his eyes. He leans against the wall and covers his face with his hands for a long moment.

_The look he gave you over dinner_ , Smith thinks. Hunched over with Ross after they returned, too far away for him to hear but if the wild gesticulations were anything to go by… and that look – that _fucking_ look – it made something uncomfortable build in Smith’s chest as their eye-lines collided.

The silence stretches on, and when Tom drops his hands and looks up to see him, he – he doesn’t exactly jump, but his whole posture stiffens so much Smith’s surprised he doesn’t freeze to ice and shatter. Their eyes meet – Tom’s are dark and decisive.

But Smith doesn’t have the mental energy to deal with him right now. He doesn’t move, just stares. After a moment, Tom trudges silently past him and heads upstairs, and Smith swallows and heads for the living room.

Tom doesn’t have any right to judge him. That’s what he’s always told himself, that only he could be the true judge of his character, cause no one knows Smith better than Smith knows himself – but when Tom had sent him that look over the fire, it had made something inside him shift and stir. A heavy weight pressing down on him, forcing him into the ground, a growing paranoia of this empty void he didn’t realise had ever been there. Except it’s not empty – that’s the problem – the problem is the _things_ that are crawling out from the depths of it. Things he doesn’t recognise or can even begin to comprehend. Sensations mainly, smell, sounds. The odd face that isn’t really a face at all.

But he’s still _him_ , nothing’s happened recently to change that fact, and if he tries extremely fucking hard and focuses on everything around him, everything that’s _present,_ thinks of Sips and his easy laughter, and Lewis rolling his eyes at a dumb statement, of Ross and his soft smile and joyful exuberance; he _can_ just about get his mind to block it off, and pretend that the fire blazing in the bottom of his chest is nothing more than muscle strain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit later than I wanted due to my laptop giving me a heart attack and refusing to charge a few days ago, but anyways... thanks to everyone who's commented you are all the best! And happy holidays to everyone celebrating, I'll be back with a new chapter in the new year ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_The worst dreams are the ones where Ross is watching himself._

_There are others, where’s he’s seeing everything unfold just like he was in real life, where no matter how much he fights, he can’t break free, can’t get there quick enough, can’t drive his knife into the neck before the shot is fired._

_But sometimes – sometimes he’s able to watch it all like he’s turned on cinematic mode in a game and sees everything he does in glaring detail. Sometimes he sees the way he struggles and tackles her back into the wall with a look on his face that’s pure hatred and rage, how he runs at breakneck speed past fire and blood and bodies only to realise – bang, bang – he was too late and the gun already went off. Or he’ll see the exact moment he kills and watches as the blood as warm and red as it had been spray against his face, coating the entire camera lens._

_Or he’ll be locked in that moment an hour beforehand, able to move – just slowly, like he’s wading through treacle, like he’s carrying an anchor on his back. He’ll wake in a sweat like he’s just run a marathon with the heavy, heavy knowledge that you let her do this to you, no matter what you do you can’t take it back, can’t take it back, can’t take it back –_

“Why’s it so hot out here?” Ross grumbles.

It’s nearly two in the morning and so fucking warm outside that it seems like the sun is bearing down on him still. He was hot lying in bed, but going outside is like stepping into a fucking sauna. He’s sweating almost instantly.

Tom is sitting with his rifle laid on the ground in front of him – his head resting in one hand, staring vacantly ahead, a big bottle of water next to him. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and Ross wonders how long he’s been up. Smith mentioned him being out pretty late last night.

“Yeah,” Tom murmurs, looking a bit dazed. “Climate change hasn’t sorted itself out yet. Give it a few more years.”

“One good thing I suppose out of all this? But fuck’s sake, I wish it would hurry up already, there’s warm and there’s the fucking Sahara desert.”

“You can always sleep in the water troughs like the dogs do,” Tom says, but is already handing another full water bottle to him. Ross reaches for it with one hand and nudges the back of Tom’s head with the other, messing up his hair. That gets a smile out of the man, and he feels lighter. He needed that, to make someone smile. He didn’t sleep well again last night. Oh, he was _asleep_ , got way more hours than usual – but it wasn’t good sleep, woke him up feeling stressed and headachy. But there’s nothing new about that side of things, and he’s used to just pushing past and getting on with his day.

They flip a coin to see who takes which side, heads take front, tails take back, and he’s secretly relieved when it lands heads for him as that means he at least gets to sit in the comfier chair for the next four hours. There is a moment when he thinks Tom wants to bring it up again. Usually Ross would be content to leave before anything can be said, but he can’t stop thinking about yesterday – when he’d almost fucked up so bad and allowed Smith to get hurt, or worse, and blurted out names he’d not mentioned in years.

It feels a bit like a hallucination. In the morning he couldn’t quite remember if it’d actually happened or if it was just some horrible dream, some product of his overworked mind. But Smith – Smith had clearly remembered it. Ross had seen him staring at nothing today, something confused and uncertain about it.

_He stomped down on that biter head like it was nothing_ , he thinks. Something about that strikes an angry chord deep in his gut. He can think of absolutely no motivation for it, and it unsettles him.

_Might’ve saved your ass, maybe, maybe not. There’s been plenty of times the odds have been against you._

_But he killed for you, and you fucking shouted at him for it. You were a right piece of shit about that. You shouldn’t have let it get that far. You’re usually so on point._

_Usually? Not when you haven’t slept for twenty-four hours, not when you’d created a scene in the middle of the night. Besides, everything worked out well in the end and you got what you wanted and more, didn’t you? Now don’t let it happen again._

He shakes himself, to watch Tom sip slowly at his water.

“You have any more thoughts after our talk?” Ross asks slowly.

Tom’s eyebrows raise a little before glancing up at him. After a moment he nods.

“Yeah… yeah.”

He goes silent – it’s a far cry from the enraged rant he went on yesterday, and Ross presses harder.

“How do I prepare for shit like this, then? I don’t fucking know what to expect next. Anything you can offer me?”

He tries to think of a time he’s willingly brought up the subject before – but to no surprise he comes up blank; it was usually the others pushing him, Lewis or Sips or Hulmes, Tom more than any of them, and he sees the man’s face losing expression for a moment before going oddly soft.

“I’m not an expert either, remember? I’ve always just tried to be straight with you because you’re one of the closest friends I’ve got here, and I respect you and want you to be safe,” he says, quietly.

“Yeah? You still respect me after hearing everything?”

“Of course. What happened yesterday and what happened five years ago will never change that. I know you never told me all the details,” he adds, almost sadly. “Just what I needed to know who you are, to let me understand you and Smith, and why it’s perfectly natural I’ll never get to hear the whole story. All I’ve ever tried to do is offer you some outside perspective, be a voice you can trust to always have your best interest at heart, that goes for the both of you. He means as much to me as you do.”

“Now that’s a plot twist,” Ross mutters, rolling his eyes – he thinks he sees Tom’s lips twitch, but when he looks back his face is blank again. _Typical_.

He wonders if Tom’s going to reiterate what he said earlier, now he’s had time to calm down and think it over. But the older man’s already rising abruptly, and chugging the rest of his bottle before filling it up at the barrel, instead saying,

“Perhaps I’m completely wrong about the whole thing. I’ll catch you again at dawn, yeah?”

Ross nods, and Tom saunters off to his post. Ross walks in direction of his own – a moment later Sips greets him, yawning.

“Alright,” Ross says, raising his eyebrows as Sips scurries past him waving his torch around. “How’s it going?”

“M’kay,” Sips mumbles, but Ross frowns, watching as the man swipes at a particularly large mosquito with the flames, cursing when it gets away. He hasn’t failed to notice how quiet the other man was after they returned. Oh, he did a good job at hiding it – but his answers had clearly been shorter than usual and his expressions carefully placed to hide something. Ross hadn’t liked it – but with all the other shit, keeping an eye on Smith, there had been no time to catch the man alone and talk. All he could do was keep a close eye on him from afar. “Ready to try and sleep in my own sweat bath.”

“Tom suggested I should sleep in the water troughs.”

“Now there’s a smart idea. How’s Smith, he been helping Craig out all day?”

“Yeah, he’s happiest there, being able to see the guy.” Ross gestures at Sips’ stuff, piled up on the chair, and freezes. Not all of it belongs to Sips, presumably, as it’s a bunch of shit he’s never seen before. He glances over his shoulder at the man – there’s no telling him to back off – then back at the items, which are really only four objects, though each unique in their appearance.

There’s a funny feel about them. He doesn’t need to ask to know who they belong to. Sips had been the one watching over the guy when they were away.

_It’s prime opportunity to figure out a bit more about this stranger – dirty as it feels to be going through his stuff._

He crouches and picks up the first item, turning it around in his hands and squinting to try and make out what it is. Fuck – there’s nothing much to be gained from this ruined piece of paper, filled with holes, almost disintegrating, dried into a dull brown colour from the river, a few smudged lines and letters remain, and stains that look sickeningly like blood – the other suff; a small, dented metal ball, a whistle, and a pair of black and white dice. The dice are the only thing still in working order, though they’re scratched on a few sides.

“I think if that thing was some sort of grenade I’d’ve set it off long ago,” Sips remarks. “What do you make of it then? That’s all we found in his clothes.”

“Perhaps this is all he had on him in the first place. But the blood here,” Ross says, as his fingers trace over the rusty stain – only to realise some of it’s still wet enough to transfer onto his skin, so he folds it up. “I assume he at least had some kind of weapon on him, at one point, he had to have got away from his attackers somehow –”

“What are you doing?”

Both of them jump as Smith’s head pops up at the top of the ladder. They hadn’t even heard him approach, and makes Ross think he’d been purposefully trying to sneak up, his hair messy and an innocent expression planted on his face. He looks more relaxed, eyes brighter and easy to read again, and he’s wearing clean clothes – but he still looks at Ross in a certain way, nothing can cover the split-second flash of _something_ that crosses his face, impossible to recognise cause he doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ it before.

Ross braces himself for interrogation, a barrage of questions, or endless theorisations – but Sips answers in a way he’s not expecting him to.

“I was asking Ross what he thinks we should name the little lady,” Sips lies immediately – and rather well, Ross thinks – Smith seems convinced.

“Well, if that’s the case you should consult me or the new guy, she likes us the most, and I wouldn’t recommend trying to get her to leave his side. Craig and I tried to kick her out for a bit earlier, and fuck me, you’ve never seen a chase quite like it, I must’ve watched them run in circles around the room for a good ten minutes, pretty fucking hilarious.”

He pulls himself up to join them and wanders along the wall while Ross takes a step back to cover the chair and looks at Sips questioningly.

Sips just shrugs his shoulders, apparently not quite sure himself why he lied – but when he looks to Smith, Ross can see the thoughts tumbling through his head. He doesn’t like that. It makes him feel uncomfortable when people look at Smith in that way, like he’s something that needs to be studied.

“What?” Smith asks, when he notices them both staring at him.

“I’m just surprised to see you up here,” Sips admits, casually enough. “You’re not the type to watch the walls off-duty. You’re usually too busy plotting.”

Smith laughs, but when he speaks it’s softer than usual.

“Is it bad that I’m missing my boyfriend after spending all but one day without him?” he asks, and his eyes twinkle. “I thought you might want some company. I can even take over if you want – you could catch up on some more sleep. Being in that room all day, think I just need to be outside for a bit even if it is like the surface of the sun out here.”

“I think I’ve skipped the melting phase and moved to straight-up evaporation,” Ross says, stealthily pocketing the stuff on the chair into his back pocket, noticing Sips stare at Smith a while longer. Something in the way the man had acted makes him wonder his motives for keeping Smith in the dark at this time, if it’s more than just the practiced omission of certain things they’d long since set parameters for. If he’s more worried about recent events than he’s let on, if he still trusts them both the same now things are different, if every night since the event that kicked it all off he’s been awake long after dark just like Ross thinking over and over what it is he’s supposed to do….

_You trusted him first_ , he thinks, back when he felt like he could never make the right judgement on who to trust again, there had been something about the man that had screamed safe in a way that reminded him of the first time he and Griff had met –

Sips picks up his crossbow and slings it over his shoulder, getting ready to go.

“How is the kid?” he asks before heading off.

“Exhausted, sick and in pain. Super weak – we don’t know how long these antibiotics need to take effect or even if they’re strong enough. Last thing we need is for the infection to grow stronger before they can work their magic. But he’s not worse, so… that’s something. Trust me, I’ve been timing the breaks between his coughing fits all day.”

“Sounds like someone’s turning into a proper mother hen, am I right?” Sips teases, sending across a wicked grin as Smith visibly squirms.

“Look, when it’s all you hear all day you get kinda pent up on it! It’s not exactly been enjoyable hearing him struggle to breathe!”

“And I suppose those stories I heard you telling him were meant to help with that?” Sips laughs, and Smith strides forward and pretends he’s about to push him down the ladder.

“That’s more for me than him. You know I’m not good at keeping my mouth shut for too long – and to be honest, I think they did help, there’s something about the way he’s looked at me at times after he just woke up – like he’s lost and there’s no clear path home, like he’s terrified sometimes. But when he sees I’m still there things become a little easier. I guess I’m some sort of constant in whatever hallucinations are fucking with his mind… so I tried to let him know I was always around, talked about random shit and when I ran out of that I just started making up dumb stories…”

Sips has switched from laughter to quiet observation by the end of Smith’s explanation. He goes to glance at Ross but stops at the last moment, and whatever emotion had been in those eyes is hidden from him. Instead he gives Smith another long look; both of them are glowing orange under the torchlight.

If some silent conversation is exchanged it’s one Ross isn’t privy to.

“I get that we don’t have a clue as to who he is. But I know he’s good, Sips, and I haven’t got a fucking clue why, but I do.”

At that Sips lets out a small, soft chuckle.

“I haven’t told anyone this yet. Been on my mind all today, you might’ve noticed me being quiet, Ross. But he spoke to me yesterday.”

“He did _what_?! Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?” Smith demands.

Sips snickers, and Ross wants to roll his eyes. But for a second, a hint of something like elation tingles in his chest, and he realises too late that he’s blurting out his own expletives at the older man. More like excitement. More like he’d see Smith behave, like it’s important, like it matters, like it’s the best news he’s heard all day.

“Oh _fuck_ off! I don’t have to report in my every conversation to you guys, y’know, I walk in and he’s just breathing fast and all like he’s having a bad dream so I tried to snap him out of it. Then when he did wake up he spoke to me, a little.”

“He say anything of use?” Ross quickly asks. Sips looks uncertain.

“He asked me if he was gonna die. I told him no. Then he said he was sorry that he lied. Said… said some shit about saying he’d have sushi but he didn’t actually like it,” he smirks. “I’m pretty sure he had no idea where he was.”

“Like he was stuck in the past… like he was somewhere else, still a kid at times… that’s what he was like today,” Smith says, and Sips looks over to him.

“At that moment, yeah,” he replies. “Brains are funny things, I guess. Surely we all have those moments even when we’re in perfect health, when everything seems so real in your head. You must have had it where you wake up from a really vivid dream and for a few moments it’s all still happening.”

Smith’s face clouds over, and Ross winces.

“I don’t dream. Not any more,” he mumbles.

“What?” Sips blurts out. “That’s not possible. You probably just forget them straight away. Your brain doesn’t just shut off like a machine when you go to sleep. I bet you dream of your boyfriend, bet you have all these dirty fantasies that all come out – ”

“ _No_ , asshole,” Smith snaps, and Ross sees Sips blanch. It’s not his fault. Only Ross can spot the warning signs so early on, and who was Sips to know this area of conversation is a no-go? Smith’s shoulders tense – but he just huffs and moves to look out into the darkness, not saying anything further. Ross can see how confused Sips is, but after a moment he just quietly gives a nod and takes his leave. Ross glances after him and turns back to Smith as soon as he’s far enough away.

“You okay?”

“Course. One stupid question isn’t gonna piss me off.”

Ross raises his eyebrows, but Smith forces out a laugh.

“I’m fine, Ross, really. I just don’t like it when some of the others look at me like I’m a freak, even old Sipsy.”

“No one ever looks at you like that. When has anyone ever called you a freak, well, that’s not in a joking way at least.”

“They don’t need to call me anything. I can see it. The way they look at me. Tom – all the time, same with Hulmes, Sips, even – Lewis even does it too, sometimes, when he thinks I’m not watching.”

“I don’t get where this dumb idea has come from when you know damn well every guy you mentioned just then would do anything for you,” Ross declares – but Smith’s cheeks turn red, and not in a good way.

“Perhaps if you weren’t so blissfully unaware to everything you would see it for yourself,” he snaps. “It’s fine, Ross. I’m not mad at you. There’s times when stuff probably gets on your nerves as well that I fail to notice. We’re not mind readers after all, and we don’t cling to each other so much that neither of us can function as an individual. I’ll tell you next time Tom does it if that’ll make you feel any better.”

“You tell me when Tom so much as sneezes loudly in your direction,” Ross teases, and is glad when Smith relaxes a little. “No one thinks you’re a freak, Smith, I promise. Maybe they look at you and it’s them wishing they could have what you have. This fire that never stops burning. This crazy, fucking determination you always carry with you. Now that,” he grins, “that is what’s freaky.”

“Look, if there’s one thing Tom and I will always agree on it’s that the freaks are the ones who get the farthest in life. You can’t be hugely successful without also being a little insane. Or a lot. If we’re talking about old political figures it was a lot.”

Ross laughs, and leans in to kiss the top of Smith’s head. The other man grabs the front of his shirt and tugs him to meet his lips instead. Smith’s warm, and for a moment Ross wants to pull him close, to wrap his arms around him and let it seep into his own cold bones. The numbness is starting to return and he doesn’t want them to be apart, not when – despite anything Smith claims – he knows he’s so fragile at the moment.

But he doesn’t have much of a choice, not without making a scene, without having to fumble his way through an excuse as to why Smith should stay up with him when it’s obvious he’d rather simmer alone now, so he forces himself to let Smith go, and settles himself down for a lonely four hours.

* * *

The trek out towards the trailer park is quite a way, and for the first twenty minutes Ross and Kim ride in silence. It wouldn’t be so bad if Kim wasn’t so God damn fidgety – constantly shifting in her saddle, and twisting to look over her shoulder at the road behind them.

“Do you think we’re gonna be caught unawares in open farmland?” Ross asks finally, and Kim turns to him with wide eyes. Her armour is shoved in the top of the saddlebag, and Ross wonders why she hasn’t got it on. He’s fully kitted up, after all.

“What? No. Do you?”

“No. Then sit fucking still, won’t you? I feel like I’m watching a rabbit ride a horse.”

Kim gives a wry smirk, and seems to make a conscious effort to settle down, pressing herself back into the saddle like she’s trying to phase through it. Ross sighs as they pull up to yet another cluster of cars abandoned and broken, nothing like that mile-long stretch he’d once seen, but eerie nonetheless. A fallen tree across the road is like a window into the past. A smaller car that’s wedged down the embankment, not fit for off-roading. He wonders as he always does what happened to these people.

“So what’s bothering you then? I’m normally the skittish one in this pairing,” he asks, curiously.

Perhaps skittish isn’t the right word, but he’s definitely the rookie here – the only time he ever feels like he can trust someone else to fully take charge, at least in terms of putting down biters. His training had been a baptism of fire, but – if the others saw him from before all that, they might possibly be fooled into thinking he was a completely different human being. Fighting was not an action past Ross would ever have dreamed of taking.

But Kim is still the one with vast experience, trained in all sorts of fighting styles since she was a little kid, and Ross has learnt a hell of a lot from her in the past five years, yet also feels like he’s impossibly far behind her level. But he’s good enough, not half bad, she tells him.

“Not worried about biters. Still can’t stop imagining what happened to this boy, who would have done such a thing.”

“You really think they’d still be out looking for him? When they’ve probably got other shit to deal with?”

“With the way they left things, yeah. You don’t do something like that and simply leave it be. It keeps me up, he’s been with us for nearly a week now, right – we still don’t fucking know what he’s about.” She snorts a bit, shrugging her shoulders. “The whole thing’s an unpredictable minefield. I hate that we can’t get anything out of him.”

“You do realise he’s been completely out of it the last five days? And he was probably dragged quite far along the river, don’t you think? Whoever did this is probably far away, they’ll never find us. Anyway, give it another week or so and maybe he’ll trust a few of us enough to tell us.”

“Why do you care about him so much?” Kim asks, and for a moment Ross is a little stumped.

“I…” he begins, only to be distracted by the view of trailers coming into sight on the horizon. As he gestures in their direction he sees Kim, in the corner of his eye, start to fidget again – only to clench her fists and kick her horse closer to his, staring intently at him. After a moment Ross is forced to look back.

“I don’t care about him any more than preferring he didn’t die while we’re taking care of him. I guess if I was an evil bastard I’d have thought it better to put him out of his misery quickly, and keep for ourselves the meds we risked our asses off for. But seeing as we’re trying to retain some form of civility out here I may as well treat him the same way you all did us. But sure, if you think I’m being too naive about it. Dunno what you think I’d have to be wary of, he’s only little. We all know short people are no threat.”

Kim’s eyes narrow – but she doesn’t try and push him from his saddle, or shoot him in the head, and his words seemed to have convinced her somewhat.

“Yours and Smith’s arrival was a lot different to his,” she murmurs. “I knew I could trust you straight away.”

“Seriously? Even when I tried to punch you?”

She chuckles. “Yeah. You were good boys. I saw what you meant to each other. And that gave me good vibes. True, my only impression of this one was when you lot brought him bleeding through the gates, but I don’t get that from him.”

“You’re wrong.”

Kim glances at him again, shock written across her face. He doesn’t quite know why he’d replied so vehemently, he’d just… wanted to back up Smith in a way, because his partner was so adamant that he felt the exact opposite way about the guy. If anyone was going to have some sort of read on him it would be Smith who’d spent almost every waking hour of the past five days watching over him. But considering Ross had barely looked in on them himself and how Smith’s behaviour had been less than… predictable lately, blindly following Smith’s judgement was…

“Just try and forget about him instead, he’s not our biggest problem. Our biggest problem are the hordes and that’s why we’re riding out in this fucking heat, right?”

Kim nods her head.

“Yeah. I wish I could.” She grabs her water and takes a long drink.

Ross does the same, sticks a hand up the back of his shirt and tries to air himself out, fingers bumping against the thin lesion along his spine. Remembers. Stops.

_Take a look at this, Ross. What d’you think this one means? You think they wanted to cut this one as well but he got away before they could? It doesn’t look like anything particularly unique._ But there had been something strange about that fourth tattoo, on his upper right arm, one that Smith had pointed out to him last time checked in. Something that puzzled him –

And only makes him want to find out more. Before this was some horrible act committed against a human being that he didn’t want to think about, now it seems like some sort of odd mystery to figure out, because he trusts his gut and something just feels _off_ here. Not about the guy himself, but – like there was a whole new aura he’d brought with him that had shifted their entire world slightly off-kilter. Perhaps that’s what Kim had been feeling too, a change in whatever invisible forces were at play.

“You know much about tattoos? Guy’s got this black bird on his arm that’s standing on top of a skull. Doesn’t look that great, like the proportions are kinda off, but it doesn’t look like it’s the kind you get when you’ve had too much to drink. It looks like it has some meaning.” _Some meaning_ being it’s not a crudely drawn dick or a heart with the word ‘Mum’ in the centre, if some of their fellow group members drunk mistakes are anything to go by. _Oh my God, maybe Duncan’s tattoo did have meaning and you just laughed it down. Maybe that stick dick represents something really important in his life. Or maybe it’s as fucking pointless as those Tetris blocks he has on his leg that he apparently got because, as he very eloquently explained to you one night over a bottle of whiskey, “squares are my favourite colours”._

Kim’s face is blank, but there’s an inquisitiveness in her eyes.

“Well, birds could mean a number of things. I don’t know much about them – what do you mean a _black bird_ though? Like an actual blackbird or a raven or a –”

“I couldn’t tell you the difference between a raven or a crow. It was black. It had wings, a beak, feathers. Like I said, proportions looked a bit strange, so if there’s a wonky version of those birds…”

“Helpful! I think ravens can represent – well, death – but also wisdom? And crows are like a bad omen, and maybe death too –”

“Also the skull. Don’t forget the skull. But I think I already got that one covered.”

“More death and bad shit. Meaning’s pretty much there in the image. Really helping me feel better about this dude, Ross… thanks.”

Ross barks out a laugh. Kim’s not even looking at him, just staring straight ahead, but he sees the corner of her mouth twitch for a second.

“But about the whole looking weird thing. Can – I mean, do tattoos sort of ever… get bent out of shape?” he asks, and sees the side of Kim’s mouth quirk higher.

“Wow, can you ask me that again in a dorkier way?” she replies, and squints in thought.

There’s a long, quiet pause. The sun is unrelenting, beads of sweat sliding occasionally from his forehead into his eyes. Not quite enough to be a problem, yet, but it just adds to the discomfort, and Ross feels heavy and lethargic in the blinding hot silence.

“Might have got it before a big growth spurt,” Kim blurts out suddenly.

She says it with such lightness in her tone that it takes Ross a minute to realise she’s not entirely joking. He glances over, and finds Kim still staring ahead with a sort of half smile.

“Yeah?” he prompts, and Kim’s head ducks a little further before she shakes her hair out of her eyes.

“Yeah, we all had those crazy schemes as a teenager, right? Even a golden boy like you must have felt like being a rebel once or twice, well guess what, some of us dumb-asses actually went through with it. You should have seen my mum’s face when I came home with my nose pierced. Told me I looked like a bull, actually. Dad, on the other hand, told me I looked cool, then paid me fifty dollars to take it out. Parents, right?”

“Yeah. Right. Dollars as in American dollars?” he asks, and Kim shakes her head, scoffing a little.

“Nope, Singapore. Remember, I told you I moved around a lot as a child, was never quite sure where I’d end up in the future. Coming to America was only meant to be temporary, stay for a while, have some fun, hope it’d be more accepting than some other places I’d stayed. Like certain family members, they… they didn’t really like people like me.”

“Like you?” Ross questions, but Kim doesn’t answer, just gives him a knowing look and a small, wistful smile.

“We’ve talked about it before, haven’t we? You, um – you mentioned things weren’t always great when you were… y’know – figuring things out when you were young.”

“Huh… I dunno. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly feel at home all the time. I dreamed about all these places I could run off to, since I was twelve years old. To go and be someone someplace else where no one would care about any other shit and I could just be me. America was one of those places.”

_We both picked a hell of a lot more than just America_ , Ross can’t help thinking. For a moment, Kim’s train of thought had made him picture himself as a gawkish school kid with a stupid hairstyle who could barely tie a tie, a gangly looking thing running desperately to try and catch the bus in the rain. But a second later he has to kick himself and remember – that kid died a long time ago. The man riding out now is responsible for a plague of horror that spread like wildfire, for what hangs around his neck like a noose ready to tighten at the slightest slip, sickening and corrupt.

“Well, at least we got a fancy house out of it,” he manages, and it makes Kim chuckle. “We need t-shirts: I survived the zombie apocalypse and all I got out of it is a colonial house.”

“Catchy. You’re telling me you didn’t have a big fancy house going to a posh private school,” she teases. “I recall you were born in Swindon of all places but you said you didn’t stay there, didn’t you?”

A chill runs down Ross’ spine. He can’t help it – he thinks of before, and London, and what used to be home, and _who_ used to be home, and –

“No,” he says, carefully, and pulls on his mask, adjusting his smile to perfection and shutting off everything else with it. “I didn’t.”

Kim carries on teasing him, and he’s grateful to remain in relative silence for the rest of the journey.

* * *

The living room has been turned into a small bomb-site. It’s never been that spacious, now it’s cramped and covered in various items of questionable medical legitimacy; a very chewed up cushion is wedged in the door, the floor veiled with clothes, towels, bandages, and blankets, while a table has been moved in and pushed up against the wall on the side, the entire surface taken up with various small labelled bottles, unopened syringes, and books on medicine, disease and treatment that Ross is quite sure have been thumbed through countless times the past few days.

The problem is, the entire room is packed with stuff he’s worried about moving, and there’s nowhere to sit.

Smith has apparently already thought of this.

“If you take off your shoes and jump over here there’s a bunch of cushions where I’ve been sitting, I’ll just move up here,” he says, pushing aside a bunch of crap to uncover two plump cushions and turning to grin at Ross. Sure enough, his next move is to hop onto the couch behind him and perch on the very end arm. Their guest is sleeping under the blankets, but it doesn’t look like there’s as many as before. Apparently four days ago whatever infection he had finally started to let off, and he’s been more aware of things going on.

“His cough was pretty bad last night, kept him up. But it sounds nowhere near as horrendous as it once did.”

“You were in here all night.”

“Wasn’t intentional, I kept thinking to myself ‘I’ll give it five more minutes’, and then suddenly it was morning,” Smith admits.

“Should’ve asked someone else to take over instead,” Ross says, and Smith gives him a very strange look for reasons unknown. Still – he brushes it off and does as he’s told, making his way to the spot on the floor. It’s strange and sort of nice to see the improvement, physically at least the change hits Ross like a shot of liquor, warms him to the very core. From what he can see, the guy’s face is still bruised, but they’re fading and the cuts look to be healing well, hopefully they won’t scar. He grits his teeth, peering at the side of the head where the right ear’s been exposed to the air. It certainly doesn’t seem great at first glance, the wound’s still very much open and painful just to look at – Craig had been diligent in his stitching however, made sure each suture was precisely placed so if it does heal, it will at least resemble something of what it was before.

It’s a bit silly, yet he feels like he’s not earned his right to sit here after his royal fuck up almost two weeks ago, trying to move as gently as he can with his tongue drying in his throat, doing everything possible to forget what had happened last time. The way he’d reacted, how he’d been totally helpless in his own body, the reasons why he’d been so on edge that night. He can count on one hand the amount of times in his life he’s felt so out of control it feels like the world’s collapsing in on itself. Four times to be precise.

_(The backyard was probably once beautiful, low walls surrounding a paved, flat area with flowerpots scattered about. But now the stones are overgrown with weeds and lichen, and the faint smell of rotting wood drifts through the window. The patio table is covered in heaped bird droppings and the plastic canopy that stretches over most of the shed roof is tattered, flapping in the wind and making a shadow dance across the ground that keeps Ross hypnotised from his position in the attic room four storeys up. There’s something eerie about this place, he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have a choice. This is all there is for him now.)_

The man on the couch shifts slightly, rolling to face Ross more, short but not breathless wheezes coupled with the occasional muffled cough – now, Smith’s scooted round to the other end with such nimble ease that Ross can’t help but stare in surprise. Nimble has never been a word he’s associated with Smith before. He doesn’t so much as falter as he deftly eases the smaller man up, tilting him forward and holding him steady.

“There,” he says, smiling. “That better?” There’s a certain expression he wears as he looks the man over, a certain gentleness that further surprises him.

Two brown eyes blink open as the coughs subside, but they’re clearly unfocused. Right now they’re gazing at Ross, but there doesn’t appear to be any spark of recognition, and Ross was unaware until just now how much of a relief that is, having been unwittingly preparing himself in case he needed to make a quick getaway for fear of a repeat encounter.

All he does instead is watch.

Smith finds a way to squeeze onto the very edge of the couch. Keeps one arm resting behind the guy’s head as the tired eyes droop shut once more, absentmindedly fiddling with the hood, sharing in a smile Ross can’t help but let out when he takes in how ridiculously big Smith’s clothes look on anyone under six feet tall.

“What time is it?” Smith whispers, and Ross glances outside.

“About four-thirty. Sun’s just hitting the trees.”

“It’s been more than six hours then.” Smith reaches under the desk and rummages about in a box, pulling out a bag of clear fluid. He hooks it up to a small tube that’s running from the guy’s wrist, and adjusts some things until a steady drip starts coming through. It’s a DIY way of giving someone antibiotics, that’s for sure – but Craig somehow managed to get it to work, between Smith’s determination and Craig’s skill they’ve probably saved his life. There are several marks on the arm, mostly bruises and thin red lines of scabbed over cuts, but there’s some older ones there too dotted amongst them. He thinks he catches a sense of what caused them, but isn’t certain.

“There’s an old scar on the other arm,” Smith murmurs, “That I think I know what from. It looked kinda normal at first, and I guess almost everyone’s got some nowadays so I didn’t really give it a second glance. But when I looked closer the other night I could see it was more like lots of smaller ones next to each other. Like they're – well, sort of oval shaped… I just thought maybe you could take a look?”

“Alright,” Ross says, at least Smith’s sticking to his word of telling him everything he picks up on. He leans in as Smith carefully rolls back the sleeve to point out the location; he’s able to pick it out immediately anyway, and narrows his eyes at the mark. Reaches out and brushes his fingertips along the pale discolouration – it all leaves very little to the imagination – he can almost feel the _bite, bite, bite_ of each burn.

Smith’s looking at him waiting for an answer, shoulders tense. He’s very obviously trying his best to stay composed, and Ross gazes at him fondly.

“Yeah, those are cigarette burns,” he comments, and Smith folds his arms and shoves his hands into himself.

“I don’t like being right sometimes,” he mumbles.

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that – Jesus, I’ve never known an adult who uses the retort ‘ _I told you so’_ in conversation as much as you do.”

Smith actually smiles at that – so bashfully that Ross nearly misses it – but it’s so unexpected that it makes Ross realise abruptly just how rarely he sees a look like that one the other man’s face. He can’t help the way something in him softens – for all his jackass persona, for all his quips and goading remarks, Ross and many others know well that it’s all mostly an act – and reaches out to take Smith’s hand in his, fingers softer and warmer than his own, running his thumb up and down his palm.

Smith blinks down when their fingers lock, lips parting like he’s about to speak – then he stops and sighs slightly.

“You’re a big fucking softie,” Ross teases. “And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Smith doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“That’s a relief,” he whispers finally, and Ross tilts his head. There’s a long pause, but he can see – he can see _exactly_ – the cogs turning in Smith’s head as he mulls things over, so when he does ask the question it doesn’t quite catch him off guard.

“Hey, can I ask you something? It’s about what you said back at the hospital?”

“You can ask, I can’t promise I’ll know the answer.”

“You and Griff… you played baseball together, yeah?”

Ross turns towards him, and the sight of those blue eyes staring so casually at him makes his mouth dry, and he licks his lips.

“Yeah. You weren’t very good,” Smith continues with a smirk. “But you got better over time. I remember watching from the sidelines – sort of, that is – I mean, I guess… that was a thing that happened, right?”

“If you remember it like that then I suppose it did. Honestly, Smith, it was a long time ago and whenever _I_ think back, it’s not usually to a baseball game I may have once or twice taken part in.” Ross doesn’t mean to sound so abrupt – oh _boy_ does he need his mask more than ever now. There’s something _afraid_ stirring in him, because if Smith remembers that then there’s a chance he’ll remember something else, if he remembers any _more_ , if he also remembers _who_ , starts putting whatever these fragments of memories are together –

_(Not again, it can’t happen again, you can’t let it. Not for him –)_

“Oh…” Smith says quietly – there’s no sense that he suspects Ross, or picks up on the sudden shift in his mood. “I guess our brains pick and choose memories when they see fit. You really can’t think of any other times we hung out with uh – with Griff, or any others?”

“I mean, yeah, but no more than heading out on duty together and the occasional drink. A kind of neighbours, I guess, but we never actually spoke in depth about –”

“What about Saffy?” Smith asks. Then, when Ross doesn’t reply straight away, “Didn’t you – that’s a name I recalled recently or maybe I’d never forgotten it I just hadn’t thought of it in a while or… but you two were together a lot, whenever you weren’t with me you’d be with her –”

“What are you saying?” Ross demands, his blood running cold. His eyes rise and pierce into Smith’s, who doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to his face and shrugs.

“Huh?” he grunts. “I’m not – I’m not saying anything. S’just I wondered why you’ve never talked about her. You used to talk about her a lot. You’d come back and you’d look happy, more hopeful. You said once if nothing else at least you made a new friend before everything ends.” A small laugh. “I think I even got jealous a few times, cause she seemed cool. But she never really spoke to me.”

“I don’t talk about her because she died five fucking years ago,” Ross breathes. “And I don’t know where you’re getting these ideas from. Maybe back then when there was too much uncertainty, you end up clinging to every friendly face you meet. But we weren’t really friends. We never knew each other enough to be friends. She was simply someone who wasn’t acting like an asshole – but she’s a memory now and there’s no point in reminiscing about the dead.”

“You’re the one who brought Griff up,” Smith grumbles, but he doesn’t seem to care too much. “Alright, let’s not talk about it. Let’s instead talk about those guns you and Kim brought back. You said one was a revolver, right? But was it a single or double action… I mean single action is great and all for accuracy but in our high pressure situations double is probably gonna be more favourable cause no safety catch release and separate cocking is required.”

Ross answers as much as he can. Focuses on keeping his voice soft, his face expressionless, all the techniques he’s learnt so he can think straight.

Maybe Smith starts to talk too loudly, or maybe he begins moving about too much, or maybe it’s just a coincidence, but in the midst of Smith jabbering on and Ross doing his best to simultaneously listen and block everything else out, the stranger opens his eyes again. And he stares directly at Ross this time.

And those eyes. Those _fucking_ _eyes._ There’s no doubt in Ross’ mind that he’s been recognised. And it’s not just that, it’s the way he looks at him, the way Ross can _see_ him looking at him, and he just _knows_ , there’s no way to put it into words he simply just knows that in that moment he sees Ross for exactly who he is. No particular realisation or recognition, no judgement or mistrust; just an unspoken, _I see you._

That, more than anything, is what scares him the most, and Ross has had plenty reason to be scared in his life. But this isn’t just fear. This is terror – this _terrifies_ him. Someone who doesn’t even know him somehow sees right through him and it’s not even Ross’ fault. There’s a reason why Tom worries himself more than most over his wellbeing; before this he’d been the only one who’d truly seen who Ross is when there’s no mask to hide behind. But that _had_ been Ross’ fault, back when he’d barely been with the group a few weeks, back when Tom had first voiced his concerns and Ross had been in no right mental state to hear them and react reasonably. It seems silly now, that fear, knowing how close they are now, but back then it’d been instinct –

_(“Well let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he snarls. “My choice here is to protect Smith. First and foremost, that’s my number one fucking priority in this world. If this place gets into trouble, I couldn’t care less what happens to any of you. He’s the one I’ll save. If I find out you’re planning to use him, that you’ve put him in danger? Even this whole group won’t be able to protect you, and you’ll wish you’d never made the fucking choice to let us stay. And if you even think about trying to hurt Smith to get to me, I will burn you alive. Do you understand?”)_

He needs to leave. Now.

He gets to his feet so fast he stubs his toe on the couch. He doesn’t look at the boy; barely looks at Smith. His jaw is clenched tight, and he doesn’t need a mirror to tell his face is paling. In one short breath he makes up an excuse to leave. He promised to help Harry with something. Something about the horses – some shit like that. When he gets out of the front door he stumbles and immediately turns, leaning a hand against the wall and moving around the corner. He’s shaking with shock now – with something too close to panic – and takes a minute to force himself to stop, and close his eyes, and take a deep breath. His heart is pounding, so hard he feels sick.

_Five years. It’s been five years,_ he tells himself. A lot of shit’s changed since then. Smith isn’t the only one he’d kill for. And he’s safe. Even with all the hordes he’s always felt safe – and hidden.Why – that guy, _how did he…_ he’s always been so good at hiding, that’s one skill he’s been a master at since he was a kid. So who the fuck was this asshole to beat him at his own game? _Who the fuck is he? Why he’s fucking here? Fuck, what does he know? Can’t be caught off guard again, you promised yourself it would never–_

_Stop. Just slow down. It’s fine, he’s fine, nothing’s happened. Nothing’s going to happen._ But he can’t stop shaking, heading off to find where the others are. Needs to do the rounds. To check  on everybody. Needs to just make _sure_.

* * *

He’s been on watch for two hours when the scream reaches his ears.

The air’s alive with swarms of dragonflies now, and he’s been forced to try and cover himself under what little shelter the front watchtower provides. Smith’s going to be having a whale of a time if he’s caught up in it too, he headed out with Sips that morning, aiming to try and a hunt down another deer, the older man had been making a point to spend time together ever since he’d unwittingly pissed Smith off.

He shakes his head as one flies into him again. He’s trying his best to ignore them, sharpening his knife again until its point is razor sharp, could slit a throat in a second.

“ _Aghh!_ ”

When he hears it, faint though it is amongst the buzz of insects, it startles him out of the daze he’d fallen into. He rises, sheathing his knife and grabbing his rifle in one fluid motion as he runs in the direction of the cry to the far corner, heart pounding as he looks over the wall. What greets him shakes him to the core.

Mark’s on the ground outside. It doesn’t take Ross long, to figure out what the fuck’s the matter, that he’s trapped. Several of the logs that made up the perimeter have toppled, looks like the ends of them have been worn away somehow, and one of them’s got the man’s leg lower leg well and securely pinned. But it takes him even less time to see that they have a problem far greater than that approaching – _fuck, what the fuck_ – at first he thinks they’re alive because, Christ, he’s never seen biters like these ones before.

“I’m here, Mark!” he shouts, vaulting over without another second’s thought, almost swallowing a damn dragonfly on the way down.

“Ross, fuck – I can’t fucking move, something fucking broken man! What the fuck are those? What the actual fuck?” The man’s full on panicked, tears streaming down his cheeks and whole body shaking fiercely. “Fucking get me out, man, fucking get me out. I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die.”

“You’re not dying, twat.” Ross is already snapping into the focused, intent zone he always finds himself in when danger’s close.

One second.

He surveys the biters coming for them, five of them, all big motherfuckers, over six feet, would’ve been packed full of muscle at one point; it’s probably only because of the deafening noise of this swarm that Mark hadn’t heard them stumbling through the woods. But the reason they’re so terrifying, what makes them so dangerous, is they are literally covered head to toe in metal plating.

Two seconds.

The only visible gap in their armour is, predictably, where their mouths are, otherwise what a fucking walk in the park this would be. Furthermore, being protected from all angles is apparently not enough, as he clocks the sharp, serrated edges of blades that line their arms. With them all bunched up together he’d be like a twig heading into the rotors of a lawnmower.

Three seconds.

Ross is barely even registering how crazy this is. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the threat and what he’s going to do about it. _Fuck me, what am I gonna do about it?_ He hands Mark a knife, the smallest one he has on him but it’s more to try and keep the man calm than provide him actual protection.

Four seconds.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you won’t have to use it,” he murmurs, and stands up.

“Wait! Ross –”

_Five._

Before he can hear another word Ross is sizing up the biter closest to them. He aims fire at its chest, but the bullet simply ricochets off. He tries a dart forward to knock it off balance, painfully aware that he’s not wearing armour. It swings at him, but he can dodge in time. He tries again – this time he makes a solid connection, hurts as much as you would expect running into a wall of jagged metal, part of his shirt snagging as he pulls away. There’s a moment when he feels it falling – knows he hit it hard enough to send it sprawling to the ground, but out of nowhere it's lurching towards him again.

One right behind it – forcing it upright as it also tries to reach him. Their disgusting mouths are wide open and ready, he can count every yellowed, sharpened tooth inside rotting flesh. For a moment he can only stare as they propel themselves towards him before grabbing his knife and aiming it right down the first biter’s throat, getting a firmer foothold back on the ground. Tries to yank it free, can’t, dodges back, not quick enough. Hisses, feels the sharp bite of steel slice through his arm when one of them swings at him. He’s not getting anywhere like this. Think. He has to think.

_Ten._

Biters are slow but relentless. And these fuckers are even slower but they’re big and strong and apparently, right now, un-killable. He’s not going to be able to take them out on his own, so his priority has to be keeping them away from Mark. Needs to hold them off until back up arrives. He was probably the closest to hearing the scream, and maybe with the swarm the others didn’t hear it at all. But he got a shot off, they would’ve heard that, they’ll be here. It’s hard to walk backwards and keep his focus, stumbling over uneven ground and protruding roots, making as much noise as possible. Luckily, these ones don’t seem to be any smarter than the average biter, and they follow his cat-calling around the corner to the front. Least here he has a little bit more room to work with.

_Twenty._

With his hand grasping his knife, his only other one still protruding out of a biter’s mouth, he tries again to find or make a break in their armour. It doesn’t work.

_Holy shit_.

No matter how many biters he’s killed in the past, this is something else _entirely_. God, if they'd had to deal with a whole horde of these he doesn’t know if they would have survived this long. The biters they’re used to dealing with pale in comparison, they seem so nice and simple now.

He shakes himself, and goes in for another attack. Desperately searching – there’s got to be a weak point somewhere other than the jaws of death, there’s got to be a way to take them out, he’s got to find it, even if it takes him the whole day of dancing around in circles he’s got to deal with them, and then make damn sure he’s never caught off guard with something like this again. His chest hurts, but it’s not entirely from adrenaline, as he readies himself for another charge – each time, taking a little from that hot well of anger, a lava burning and bubbling closer to the surface the longer he fights– only to hear someone call out to him.

“Wait!”

He looks up. The stranger is on the wall behind him.

“What the fu–” Ross begins to say, but he presses a finger to his lips. He’s shaking something in his hand frantically and Ross only just realises he’s meaning to throw it when suddenly, he arcs it upwards with a strength he has no right in possessing and whatever it is flies straight above his head.

_Shit!_ He hasn’t time to get out of the way – all he can do is duck back against the wall, waiting for the sound and impact.

But no blast comes. At first the world seems to go creepily silent – Ross hears his own heart beating through his ribcage. Then the noise stars, quiet at first but growing louder and louder with each heavy breath and when he turns he’s almost certain he’s suffered a concussion because what he’s seeing, what’s in front of his very eyes right this second, is quite frankly fucking insane.

All the biters are stood still – like actually frozen in place completely ignoring him stood still. Instead, they’re all looking up, looking at what he can only describe as a small, spinning rotor that’s emitting a high pitched whir, and it takes him a second but he recognises it as the metal ball Sips had found amongst the guy’s belongings, except this one, whatever the hell it’s supposed to be, is still in working condition. Whatever it is has the biters absolutely hypnotised.

The guy’s disappeared from the wall, and Ross curses. There’s no way in hell he’s going near that thing without having the first clue what it does. And if it suddenly stops, does that mean they instantly go back to seeing him as the prime target?

“There’s a small hole under their chin,” a timid voice utters directly behind him, startles Ross so much he forgets to raise his knife in defence as he spins round. The man jumps too, but holds his ground. It’s the first time Ross has seen him standing, and despite the height difference and the shakiness in the way he holds himself, there’s a flash in those dark eyes that speaks of confidence and experience, and his hand is steady as he holds out a chisel that Ross hopes he’d just found lying around rather than another object he had concealed on him the whole time. “It’ll be easier with this.”

“Guess I’ll take your word for it,” Ross says, taking it from him.

There’s a flicker of astonishment in his face, but Ross doesn’t stay to observe any further. With caution, he crouches forward to where the closest biter’s standing – it’s the unfortunate knife-stuck-in-mouth fucker – and sneaks a look at its chin. Sure enough, there’s a small hole. The ease in which he drives the chisel through rotted flesh to its brain makes him grin, as it crumples to the floor and he can turn his attention to the others with hesitation, working through them methodically – stab, stab, stab, stab.

And just like that, they’re all dead.

“Looks like that thing's losing charge or whatever,” he calls out, seeing the rotors starting to slow, but the guy’s already underneath it; catches it in one swift motion and pockets it away. It feels like it’s been forever, when in reality it’s barely been more than a minute, and so only now does backup arrive, the shouts bringing Ross back to reality somewhat. His arm burns, but he ignores it, breathing heavily as retrieves his knife and wipes the blade on his jeans.

“Shit, shit – it’s Hulmes!” he hears Lewis first, and then, “Oh, thank fuck, Ross is out here guys!”

“Fuck me,” Lydia whistles, approaching him, while the others rush to Mark. “What the fuck are these losers wearing – it’s like they’ve popped out of the middle ages!”

Ross grits his teeth. He finishes cleaning his blade and looks at his reflection in the shiny steel. He can see Lydia behind him, looking excited – hands placed on her hips like she’s judging his work, almost amused at the sight before her. He narrows his eyes, aware there’s still something very dangerous in his face. It’s a killer’s look, one Ross remembers he used to see on himself every morning. One he once saw on Smith.

It doesn’t take him long, morphing his face into something more agreeable, but it feels unnatural. That never changes.

“Took your time Lyds, missed out on all the fun,” he drawls, greeting her with a cocky smirk.

For once she doesn’t take the bait, eyes glued on the stranger, who’s looking more and more like a rabbit caught in headlights, jumping every time a stray dragonfly bumps into him, leaning to the side like he’s favouring one leg. Lydia sees this, and her tone calms a little.

“Hey there, shorty,” she calls out. “Why don’t you come over and we can watch and laugh at Hulmes as they rescue him from a piece of wood? Best thing to do seeing as I missed out on all the fun.”

She hides her surprise quite well when the smaller man gives a small nod and pads along quietly behind her until they’ve also disappeared around the corner.

Ross takes a deep breath.

_Five biters._ He’s killed more than that before, and easily, too. But these guys were tough, and he remembers how scary the threat of tackling potentially larger hordes is. Remembers how much of a threat they’ve been so far.

He’s bracing himself to go and face the others when suddenly another surge of red hot fire erupts in his chest. He hears the scream of pain, then –

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Look at you now.” he starts furiously kicking at the corpses. “You’re dead-dead – how about that?”

Something inside has snapped. How many times has it been close to breaking – too often recently. And now it has, and the only fucking thing he wants to do right now is destroy these monsters. Hack into them with the chisel until there’s nothing left. Like it can make a difference. Like it can make things right. Like it can justify everything.

Like every choice he’s ever made has been the right one and not just because he’s been too scared to do anything else.

All natural sounds of the world disappear and he hears them start to get in the car and rev the engine. He sees a man leap out from undercover just as he gets it in gear, charging at them, and he opens fire. He sees him fall back with a scream, clutching at his shoulder, and others race out from the darkness and the smoke as the tyres spin and he speeds away with the front door still hanging open.

He shakes his head, angrily, not getting anywhere with breaking these things apart. Tries digging his fingers in under the chin and tearing the helmet away from the inside, but all he gets is blood and bone fragments beneath his fingernails, and he stands, breathing heavily. His arm is stinging, and he shuts his eyes to see a lanky boy cowering against the wall of a kitchen, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down his cheeks. He advances towards him, only to pause when there’s a cough next to him, and he opens his eyes to see Craig standing there giving him a very hard stare.

He tries to smile, but it’s not a very good attempt.

“Mark okay?” he asks, instead, because maybe he can convince the other man he’s simply worried about his friend and nothing more.

“Only a sprain, I think, he’s more in shock than anything.”

“Good.” Ross nods, licking at his dry lips. “Good.”

Craig’s still staring. His eyes heavy and concerned.

“Your arm,” he gestures, and Ross realises the hot trail of sticky blood has now spider-webbed down past his elbow.

“Nothing vital,” he assures, and turns back to the bodies, a clear _not now Craig,_ eventually hearing the man retreat, then starts to hack at a different one, more methodical now, like what he’s doing is totally normal. He doesn’t get very far, as a hand reaches out and grabs the back of his shirt.

“Jesus Christ, now what?” he moans, spinning around again.

His eyes go wide with alarm, as the boy quickly takes a few frightened steps back.

“Oh… Lydia scare you away already, huh?”

Silence.

He’s staring at Ross’ hands and it’s dumb, but he suddenly feels self-conscious, does his best to hide the blood by giving them a quick dust bath.

“Neat little trick you’ve got there.”

Again, he doesn’t get a reply, just a few more retreated steps. _You do have a voice, though. You were fucking loud when it counted. Plus I know you’ve spoken to Sips, even if you don’t._

“Listen, that thing – it’d help if we knew what it was, so we could prepare ourselves.”

All he receives is another wide eyed stare. There’s something so earnest in his face that it almost embarrasses him. This is just how he’s _coping_ – you pump yourself full of adrenaline to survive, you find yourself a little bit worked up once it’s over, then you deal with that tension how best you see fit. Biters aren’t human and Ross is certainly no innocent. If Smith had been here, he would have hesitated, but he’s not, and if he wants to smash a dead biter’s head in he can fucking well do so without anyone judging him.

And this guy – this guy is a complete _enigma_ , proven he can fight, has good instincts, and is apparently well versed enough in fighting these abominations that he’s kitted himself out like a little Batman. That’s not even beginning to mention how he ended up here, the cold-blooded fucking monstrosity of an attack that could’ve killed him –

Yet here he is looking at Ross like _he’s_ the stranger here, the fucking out of place one, and he feels something hot and ashamed in his chest. He flings the chisel into the ground, and his silent watcher takes another step back, uneasily.

“You forgotten how to speak already?” he snaps. “If you don’t have anything to say then get out of here. I don’t have time to babysit you like Smith.”

But even as he speaks he feels that anger beginning to dissipate and regrets the words the instant they leave his mouth. That feeling of shame increasing to almost unbearable levels at how positively _dejected_ the boy appears. And he’s also angry with himself, because this isn’t who he’s supposed to be. He’s meant to be positive. He’s meant to be always happy. He’s meant to be the good guy. He’s not meant to slip up.

“Sorry, I’m being a dick,” he says, softer. “You just had me a little freaked out when I saw you. These fuckers had me _more_ than a little freaked out. What I should have said is… thanks, you were pretty badass, and I owe you one.”

The look he receives is one that thinks he’s making some kind of joke, that it’s a trap or a trick. Ross is lying, or he’s only saying this cause he wants him for something else – and it feels strange to Ross now, remembering how different the guy had looked for that split second, how determined he’d seemed, yet when he moves cautiously past and crouches to look over the bodies, he’s once again staring at a frightened little kid, while Ross is standing here feeling the blood pump furiously through his veins, feeling powerful, feeling like a killer, like he’s achieved something. He turns back as footsteps come around the corner, sees Hulmes, and his shoulders sink in relief.

The other man is extremely pale, and being supported on both sides by Craig and Ravs, but when he spots Ross he manages a nod of gratitude and a small smile.

“Come on, buddy,” Craig is saying, reassuring as always. “Let’s get you inside. And you think this is bad? Wait until you try and explain to Nina why you thought fixing the wall on your own was a good idea. There’s no amount of painkillers I can provide that’s gonna help with that one.”

“Oh fuck me…”

Ross smirks. “Not for at least a week,” he jests, and the laughter that follows is better than any medicine.

Swarm’s almost gone now. He asks if there’s anything he can do to help but Craig shakes his head, no.

“You uh – probably best you take care of that one,” he whispers, pointing past Ross. He glances over at their unexpected saviour to find the boy watching him where he’s remained crouched amongst the corpses. Ross furrows his brow, wondering what on earth he’s trying to play at. Either way, his arm hurts, and he just wants to get the fuck away from the dead.

* * *

_Trott’s heart leaps as a hand latches onto his backpack, pulling until he falls from the chainlink fence onto the ground. But a moment later – a grin, the flash of white teeth in a dark face, eyes crinkling cheekily._

_“Hey – you’re learning hella faster than I did. A few more quick corners and I’d ‘a lost ya.”_

_“I suck. You caught me again,” Trott grumbles, standing and dusting himself down._

_“Nah, it just takes practice! Won’t be long ‘til Darius starts sending you out with the rest of the swifts. ‘Sides – ya got the best teacher, lil dude.” He ruffles Trott’s hair – Trott bats him away, but laughs. “Then you’ll be a fully-fledged member of the Black Crows.”_

_“Yeah, cause that’s such a cool name.”_

_“Oh, is that how it is?” Vinnie grabs him into a headlock. “Cheeky lil sonofabitch.”_

_Trott grins. He makes to wriggle out of the older boy’s hold – but he’s not really trying, more attempting to manoeuvre himself to jump onto his back. Vinnie laughs, and fixes a grip under his legs, carrying him out of the trash-littered back-alley with the promise of stopping at McDonald’s before heading home. This feels like family – this boy just a few years older than him but with a seeming world of experience in his dark eyes and sharp instincts. His real name is Lamar, but that’s not a name he’s gone by in a very long time, since he was younger than Trott, the name his parents gave him, and like hell he wants to keep anything from those assholes, not when he doesn’t need them anymore. Trott almost wants to change his too. And he’s Trott’s first friend, his mentor, and he’s promised to always look out for him no matter what and makes him feel like he’s an important part of something –_

“What the fuck happened?”

As soon as Smith returns and sees Ross holding his bleeding arm, his face clouds over. Trott can tell right away that he is expecting the worst, already breathing faster and shaking. His hair’s dishevelled like he’s been pulling at it, and there is a redness under his eyes. He smells like the woods, undercut with a faint musk.

“Had a bit of an incident,” Ross says.

“What the _fuck_ , Ross?” There’s shrill panic in Smith’s voice. “You got hurt?”

“Not badly. Don’t worry about it.”

“What was it, an animal?”

“Blade,” Ross admits, and Smith’s face goes nearly white.

Trott slinks down lower as they continue to talk, having taken up residence under the kitchen table as soon as he’d spotted it. Craig had taken the hurt guy – Mark – to the room Trott had been staying in, and told him and Ross to wait in here. Later he’d come in and checked on Ross’ arm, but hadn’t tried to rid Trott of his hidey-hole.

Ross hasn’t spoken a word to him during that time, nor the others who’ve come in and out, and it’d been a relief when no one seemed to mind him, but he still can’t stop shivering, and it’s not just from the sudden physical exertion after so many days not moving. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Ross or anyone else, not after what had happened. The walk back to the house was silent and tense. He knows Ross is keeping a close watch on him, and there are too many possible reasons why. But he hadn’t wanted Mark or Ross to die – he never wants to see _anyone_ die.

He hadn’t been doing anything bad, just looking out of the window watching the dragonflies, they were really cool. Today had been the first day he’d had energy to do anything other than rest. He hadn’t been planning to leave, but he’d seen Ross run, urgently. Hadn’t been planning to do anything – until he’d seen them, and knew he had to – or planning on going up to Ross again after the fact, but he had, and he’d wanted to see for himself, to see _who_ –

These things happen sometimes.

He had wished he could just disappear somewhere in the house, but he hasn’t got a clue where anything is. And he doesn’t know what will happen if Ross catches him skulking away.

Smith hasn’t noticed him yet, and has pulled up a chair in front of Ross, already fussing over him, wanting him to peel back the bandages so he can take a look, still breathing fast. Ross reaches up and cups his cheek with his good arm. It’s like he’s a different person now, and Trott can’t help studying him, moving carefully around the side of the table and sneaking forward a little before curling up again, tilting his head at an angle to try and get the clearest read on the man.

“Fucking hell,” Smith says, “This could’ve hit an artery!”

“It didn’t, Smith. I’m _fine_. Craig’s checked me over good and proper. Probably won’t even need the bandages for too long.”

“A biter _stabbed_ you.”

“Scratched,” Ross assures him, and Smith stands for a moment, holding Ross’ hand, his jaw clenched tight.

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” he says through gritted teeth. “We’ve never seen biters like that before.”

There’s a long pause, the two of them looking intently at each other. Trott watches how precisely calm Ross looks, sees the effort he’s putting in to appear as nonchalant as possible about the whole thing.

“Yeah,” Ross says finally. “It was weird. But we dealt with them. I killed them just the same as I’d kill any other biter. They die just the same, just took a little bit to work out the trick in how to do it.”

“It’s more than fucking weird,” Smith says, and sucks in a hissing breath. “Fuck. They could’ve killed you –”

“Smith –”

“ _Fuck_.” His voice rises, and he kicks the table leg. Trott’s shoulders hunch automatically. He wants to bolt from the room, but sits fused in his hiding spot. He doesn’t miss the flash of fear in Ross’ eyes, either.

“Smith.” Ross is gripping his shoulders now, staring him in the eyes. His voice is gentle and protective and so damn different to the man Trott was certain he’d seen in the middle of that terrifying first night. “I am _fine._ I’ve had worse than this, you _know_ that. _You’ve_ had much worse than this. It’s what comes with protecting those we love. We did what we had to in order to save one of our own. No one got killed, except those biters. This will heal within a day or two – it’s not bad. It barely even hurts, fuck, it doesn’t need stitches. It’s already bandaged up. Look at me, Smith – _I’m_ okay.”

Smith stares at him, wordless. He’s trembling, and Ross’ hands run soothingly up and down his arms.

Ross might be okay, Trott thinks, but Smith sure isn’t. But after a moment he takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the other man’s shoulder. So in turn, he misses the outpour of relief that crosses Ross’ face.

“So what happened?” he demands, a piercing curiosity in it. “How’d you take them out if they’re covered in metal? What do you even mean by that anyway, like they were wearing armour or something? And – wait, we, you said _we,_ who else was involved? Is someone else hurt, Ross –”

“No, I dealt with it all fine on my own, it was a slip of the tongue,” Ross cuts in, to Trott’s relief. And surprise. His throat had already been starting to close up, worried how he’d explain this one away. Ross’ voice is flat, but Trott can tell there’s more to his secrecy than simply wanting to keep Smith calm. But he’s good, there’s an experience to the way he keeps this facade up. “But it’s probably important for you to know, your little friend came out to see what all the racket was about.”

“ _What_?” Smith exclaims. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Ross says, “But I don’t think he likes me very much cause he’s been hiding under the table ever since.”

_Uhh…_

Ross pops his head down to look at Trott for the first time, and Smith’s hasty to follow suit. His mouth feels dry. He swallows and risks a glance at Smith, quickly. Concern. That’s all there is in the man’s face, genuinely.

“Oh my God, why’d you let him stay there?”

“He seemed happy enough.”

“He’s been ill for weeks.”

“Yeah, well he’s apparently better now. I would’ve got Craig the moment I thought something was wrong, you know that.”

Smith rolls his eyes as he kneels down. He looks like he wants nothing more than to grab hold of Trott and pull him out, but he refrains from moving any closer, an expression he’s so familiar with forming on his face or _fuck –_ he used to be, and suddenly it’s like he’s back in the city, crouched down in some cold alleyway somewhere in South Central, lost. He’s doing his best to hide in the shadows, hungry, shivering, terrified. He’d had little luck the past few days. With winter drawing in fewer and fewer people walked the streets – and more importantly, a worryingly lack of tourists. They were always the easiest. And now he’s slipped up and is in big trouble, at the mercy of this older boy, who’s a lot taller and stronger than he is, who’s chased after him almost cat-like, who’s… who’s crouching down slowly with a gentle smile before Trott fully realises this isn’t an attack. Who’s holding out a gloved hand that contains a bar of chocolate, whose smile only widens when Trott finally, hesitantly, reaches out and takes it in his smaller grasp.

“Alright, mate?” Smith smiles. “Thanks for taking care of dumbass for me.”

“At this rate he’s gonna think that’s my actual name,” Ross remarks.

“Nah. He probably knows fuck tons of shit about you – I told him everything when he was sick, all the juicy little tidbits.”

There’s a pause. Trott waits to see if the two are going to do anything other than stare at him, not sure if he’d rather them leave altogether. Somehow, he thinks he prefers they stay. He kinda knows these two, if they leave him alone it’ll be like he’s a lost boy wondering where he should go all over again.

“At some point the others are gonna come in to use the kitchen,” Ross murmurs finally, and Smith presses his lips together.

“Hey,” Smith’s trying to sound reassuring. “It’s alright, you can stay there if you want. Me and you can just chill down here and no one will bother us. S’just…you’re still not completely better, yet. I just worry, y’know?”

Not really.

_Why do you care?_ he wants to ask, yell even. _No one ever cares, they say they do and sometimes they do a pretty good job at acting like they do. But it’s all lies, all they ever want is to use you for their own gain. Maybe someone genuinely does care for a bit. I knew someone who cared once and even they left. The ones who go back on that promise are the worst – but you know what, it’s all my fucking fault, for being so stupid. You shouldn’t expect anyone to always be there. Everyone leaves you, eventually._

“I bet you’re probably a little freaked out after what happened,” Ross says softly, and Trott blinks up at him. The other man’s doing that thing where he’s looking at Trott but not really, a trick he knows well. “It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m not gonna let anything happen. Big boy Ross isn’t gonna let any biters fuck with us.”

_What does he mean?_ Is Ross saying he’s not going to tell anyone the truth about what happened? There’s something about this man, something Trott now remembers he saw that first night, though back then terror had overtaken all rational thought. It’s more a feeling than anything. Ross feels – he’s not sure if he knows the right word to describe it – turbulent, maybe, but not accurate enough.

Unlike his partner, Smith’s face is open and genuine. He’s shuffled a little closer, looking a bit ridiculous as he barely fits under the table, like a giraffe trying fold in on itself. 

“I want you to trust us,” he says. “I understand that’s asking a hell of a lot. But please, please believe me when I say you can trust us.”

Ross nods in wordless agreement. Another long silence falls, then Smith slowly reaches out and touches Trott’s arm, carefully smoothing down one of the bandages that’s come loose. 

For some reason, that simple act is what makes Trott blurt out, “I’ve seen those metal hea – biters before.” His breath hitches in his throat, still his own voice sounds strange after so long, but doesn’t hurt as much he’d expect. “I – I seen ‘em. My old groups. I mean – there were others. Up North, they send ‘em out. Same guys who hurt me.”

“They sent those things after you?” Smith demands, a sudden ferocity behind it, and Trott shrinks back a little.

“No… uh, not that time. It was – there was just a lot of ‘em.”

“But these assholes are fucking –”

“Smith, calm down, you’re scaring him.”

Smith’s expression briefly turns annoyed, and his gaze flicks back at Ross, who’s own expression has barely changed at all, and he takes a moment, and Trott can’t see his face, but when he looks at Trott again, he’s all apologetic now.

“Sorry, I have a habit of doing that sometimes, forgive me?”

Trott nods his head, a bit sheepishly, and Smith sucks in his breath through his teeth.

“They’re never gonna hurt you again. We won’t let it happen. That’s not who we are.”

It’s said with a similar ferocity, but this time it’s more determined than frantic. Trott sees Smith’s head rise as he says this, like he’s a soldier making a pledge.

_You’re a fool if you believe him._

“Better believe him, kid.”

_What the –_

Ross’ statement had coincided so freakishly perfect with his own inner murmurings it actually makes Trott unwittingly drop his guard, looking up defiantly.

“M‘not a kid,” he grumbles, before remembering where he is and quickly averting his gaze.

Ross just chuckles. “Yeah, that so? What do you like to be called then?”

His laughter is warm and rich, makes his eyes crinkle and turns his ears a light shade of pink and maybe… maybe it’s the happiest sound he’s heard from Ross all day.

“Trott,” he says after a moment. “People call me Trott.”

“And you? You like to be called Trott?”

He gives Ross a long look. “Uh-huh.”

Ross seems to study him for a second, then one corner of his mouth tilts up. Meanwhile, Smith appears to be suffering from some sort of aneurysm.

“My God I just realised we’ve got another one,” he exclaims, looking at Trott likes he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. “Did all of England just decide to take a fucking holiday over here for the apocalypse?”

Trott’s not quite sure what he means, but he seems excited and happy enough about it. Ross is laughing again, and subconsciously Trott finds himself shuffling out into the open. He moves until he’s sat a few feet away from Smith and takes a proper look around the room.

Everything is so weirdly domestic, almost feels like he’s travelled back in time to the old world, this is a _very_ nice house from what little he’s seen – would even put his teenage one to shame, the kitchen’s shiny clean, and there’s plenty of vegetables and cans stocked up along the walls. The safe houses he’s used to were just that, _safe_ – safer than the outside, at least – a place actually being homely had always been a stupid, _stupid_ idea he would fantasise about, because the first rule of making a place homely was you needed nice people to fill it with.

People are nice here.

People are nice. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be amongst people who were quicker to smile and laugh than they were to anger and punish.

He watches and listens to the two banter for a few more minutes, in awe of how easy and carefree it comes. After, when Smith addresses him by his name, he’s taken aback for a second, momentarily forgetting that they know it now.

_Least that’s one thing you’re not lying about._

There’s an uncomfortable air of guilt surrounding him as Smith guides him back to his room. But when the man makes sure to leave the door open a crack, and tells him he won’t be far away if he needs anything, the vice around his chest eases just the tiniest bit.

* * *

Trott’s lying on the couch, trying to find some entertainment from one of the medical books, when Smith knocks lightly on the door an hour later and yelps when he’s immediately pounced on by a ball of white fur.

“Jesus!” he cries, stumbling back – Trott’s first instinct is panic, maybe it’s the loud noise but his brain immediately jumps to the conclusion that they’ve decided to kick him out or hurt him or he’s done something wrong, something he didn’t realise, or Ross has told him everything, and they’re here to shout at him –

But Smith doesn’t look angry. He’s just laughing as he grabs the dog off the floor and holds her in front of his face so she can give it a good ol’ tongue clean.

“She’s taking her guard dog role very seriously,” he declares.

“I’m sorry, I was just looking. I was careful,” Trott hurriedly mumbles, as he shuts the book, and Smith raises an eyebrow.

“Up to you if you wanna read that boring thing,” he says, slowly. “Better you have it than it being used as a chew toy by – what’s your name again, fucker? Princess McCloudy Fluff Snow?”

“I uh, I’ve been calling her… I mean, I started calling her Mochi a few days ago – but, I mean, I’m not saying that should be her name, it’s…” He stammers off awkwardly.

“Mochi, huh? What’s that mean?” Smith asks, taking the seat by the desk.

“Umm, it’s a food,” Trott says, cheeks heating. “It’s like a little Japanese sweet treat.”

“Oh! That’s fucking brilliant, I think. Yeah, it’s decided: I hereby pronounce you, Mochi, first of her name. A very close second to my idea, Little Miss Cocaine, which was my favourite of the Mr Men books.”

“I don’t,” Trott starts, thoroughly flustered by now. “I mean, I didn’t – haven’t –”

“Hey, it’s alright, I wasn’t insinuating anything. I just meant, y’know, she’s white, we’ve been thinking of names of other white things. You get me? But no, Mochi’s way cooler, more badass, it’s always the subtler names that are better, rather than shit like Fluffy or Snowy. Same with like army guys, the cool ones don’t call themselves Shooter or Scout or whatever, they have other names… Husky and Blue and stuff, etcetera… Mochi. Yeah. Mochi is the best.”

Trott nods politely. There was something deliberately rushed in Smith’s voice at the end there, and Trott has no doubt the names he’d mentioned were names of actual people, individuals he’d rather not dwell on or talk about in front of Trott for any number of reasons. Like an emergency protocol had been activated – _alert, stop talking_. Fair enough – Trott’s got plenty of names in his back catalogue, some he’s not spoken out loud since he was a child. Names can be like that, hold such a weird amount of power for a single word.

“Nat-twenty name,” Trott mumbles under his breath, but Smith still hears and begins to laugh loudly, only to freeze.

“Was that a D&D reference?” he demands, and Trott glances at him, surprised.

“Yeah?”

“You ever play?”

“Used to,” Trott admits. God, he’s barely thought about that in a long time – the things he used to do for fun, in those long LA summer holidays, in the rare times he wasn’t busy with some extra-curricular activity he was able to go to one of his school friend’s houses and stay for the night, playing six to eight hour long sessions, feasting out on junk food. Those were the times it became so easy to feel like a normal kid. And the best times after that, when he graduated and he was the most _free_ he’d ever been, finally a life he could call his own. When he wasn’t _scared_ all the fucking time.

Nowadays none of that seems relevant. It’s all about surviving, day after day, and when he isn’t scared he’s worrying why he isn’t.

There’s something almost boyish about the way Smith’s eyes have lit up a little, about how his reddish curls are scrunched up in one hand as he’s sprawled across the desk, resting on his elbows. He does have nice hair, Trott can’t help but notice. It looks very soft. And when he’s not animating, being excessively passionate or talkative, there’s something quite charming about his face. Ross is easily good looking, with that jaw and those eyes – but Trott can see why the man would be attracted to Smith, too.

He shakes off those silly thoughts.

“You um… you played too?” he murmurs, and Smith nods.

“Yeah – I mean, all of us lot here were pretty big gamers. When we’ve got some more shit sorted out, we’re gonna run the most epic campaign ever. Marky Mark, the guy who decided to get squashed earlier, apparently he used to DM all the time. I wanna play a bard. They can actually do so much cool shit even when they’re not super strong or super smart or stealthy – relatable.”

It’s an unexpected insight, and Trott manages something like a smile. Smith glances at him, seeming almost sad, but quickly turns back to messing with objects on the desk, picking up Craig’s stethoscope and trying it out on himself. There’s a lot of medical shit around, and it kind of blows Trott’s mind that most of it’s been used on him. So many resources used up on a stranger – so much precious time wasted on keeping him alive, and it makes that guilt build up in his chest again and he subconsciously goes to pick at the bandages on the side of his head.

“Huh?” Trott blinks in surprise, Smith’s staring at him and he completely missed what he just said.

“Have you been poking at that?” he demands.

“No, it just itches sometimes, it’s not like I’m gonna pull if off again,” Trott lies, squirming a little – he kicks himself immediately, worried he’ll rile up Smith – _stupid, stupid, don’t you ever bloody learn_ – but to his surprise Smith just snorts and smiles widely.

“That reminds me, I owe you a free slap at me still! That was our deal, remember?”

“It’s okay,” Trott says softly, a bit unsure what’s being referenced here. “I owe you way more than you’ll ever owe me.”

“I don’t know about that. I heard you played a bit more of a role than I realised today. Ross said you actually helped distract one of those biters so he could take it out. Said you looked like you could handle yourself. Bet you’re a great fighter, too. Must’ve been to survive what you’ve been through.”

Trott looks down. He’s sure it’s meant as a compliment, and it’s… nice, for once, to get positive feedback for something he’s actually pleased with rather than disgusted sick, praised for following orders, for doing what he was told because he was too much of a coward to say no.

Smith’s gone weirdly quiet and maybe it’s not that strange but it’s pretty damn different, because it’s not like a moment of silent reflection or pondering, it’s as though the man literally turns off for a few seconds.

“You remember much about the start of the outbreak?”

Trott nods, grimacing, but Smith seems to be ignoring his answer anyway and is just full on gazing off into the distance, in his own world.

They’d been playing basketball, it was midday. Being outside at the time is probably what saved their asses.

“Both mine and Ross’ recall of our first year is absolute shit, I understand why, there’s a huge fear and uncertainty element to it, and honestly nothing major really happened to give us much reference of time. We were based somewhere else, you see, huge fucking place,” he adds, and Trott sees the whites of his knuckles as his fists tighten. Smith’s not smiling now.

“Like, obviously I remember my time there, but it never seems that hyper-realistic. Kinda like a confusing dream, y’know? Like it didn’t really happen. Figure the first year is when most of the guys really honed their skills, but I certainly didn’t. Made it through year one and got nothing to show for it.”

If by honing skills he means undoing all the effort he put in trying to change who he was, then yeah, Trott became very skilful in his first year. And for a long time he’d not even attempted to halt the process, he thinks, ashamedly.

“Me and Ross both went through the same shit, we’ve been together through it all. Yet he’s the one who gets to be the badass?”

“You’re the one who saved me.” He almost reaches up and clamps a hand over his mouth, like a four-year-old who’s just uttered a naughty word – but Smith looks legitimately quite enlightened. Usually he’d remind himself he’s someplace else now, someplace different, but Trott’s still bracing himself for the moment when all of this turns and he realises it was some trick or trap, or that Smith’s only been keeping him company so much as a distraction to keep him blind, or he wants something.

“That _was_ pretty badass. Ross – to be fair to him, isn’t the best swimmer, anyway – got what’s it called, Thalassophobia? Fear of open water?”

Trott doesn’t know.

“Neither am I.”

“Really? Guess you’re kinda lucky you had a biter as a buoyancy aid. You would’a drowned before I even got to play the hero,” Smith jokes, and Trott looks away, tensing. In the silence that follows Smith seems to realise what he said, and looks a bit uncomfortable. He glances Trott over, but goes back to messing with Craig’s stuff.

“What were you doing over here, anyway?” he says after a moment, and Trott stares at him.

“Sorry?”

“What you were doing in America.”

Trott really doesn’t have a proper answer for that. For a moment a great, indignant tightness rises up in his chest. He wants yell out in front of Smith that he’d never been given the fucking choice, that he’s never even stepped foot on English soil since he was five years old and the only reason he’s kept the accent is because his mum made him and then later it became a handy and sometimes quite literal get-out-of-jail card. But shouting would be a very stupid thing to do, so he takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow.

“I live here,” he says, tightly. “Lived here a long time.”

Smith stares at him. He seems to think about it, and looks quite curious.

“And the people you were with before –”

“We got separated,” Trott interrupts, and fights a flinch, but nothing happens. The other man just nods at him, and Trott swallows. “I was… we had a place in this city up North, least I think that’s the right direction, I got kinda turned about. There were plenty of us. They won’t miss me.”

Smith’s quiet. He’s stopped fidgeting now, but Trott sees a trouble in his eyes and the way he holds himself. He’s never seen this side of the man, he’d had his more serious moments for sure, and earlier with Ross he’d been practically hyperventilating – but the way he is now, it’s like a part of him’s gone somewhere and is struggling to get back. Trott starts picking at the bandages around his arm instead, perhaps hoping it might get Smith’s attention back, but after a moment the man clears his throat.

“I’ve never… I’ve never been much good at anything. You ask any of the others and they’ll say my strengths are talking a good game and being stubborn to a fault.”

He sighs, runs a hand over his face. “I almost got Ross killed. You go out there with someone, you should have their back,” he says flatly. “But I was completely useless, and the worst part of it was it felt normal, it wasn’t a shock to me that I was a fucking idiot.”

Trott tilts his head.

“I used to play a lot of tactical FPS’s and MOBA’s, if that means anything to you. I always get these ideas and strategies in my head, I like to think and prepare for different situations. I find it fun. I used to do it as a kid and have all these contingency plans for pranks, half of which I never even went through with, and I still do the same sort of thing now. And I get mad sometimes, right? When people don’t take me seriously about all this stuff, and then I realise they have every right not to.”

Smith looks down, and closes his eyes. Trott’s frozen still, hyper-aware of every breath he’s taking. His heart’s pounding, and he doesn’t even know why. It should be easy simply listening to Smith talk, but he feels sick, like this is too personal, like whatever he hears next might matter too fucking much.

“All bark, no bite, that’s me,” Smith says.

His eyes open again, and the turmoil in them is unmissable. “Hey, maybe that’s why I never fucking learnt anything useful,” he snaps. “I was too busy in my own head while Ross was the one actually getting stronger.”

Trott curls up a little tighter. There had been a slight bitterness in the way he said Ross’ name then, and it had made him inexplicably uncomfortable.

“I once asked for a Dreamcast for my twelfth birthday,” Smith murmurs, and bites his lip before adding, voice nearly shaking, “I remember… I mean, I didn’t end up getting it, but I’d been so sure I would and when I opened my present and saw a PS2 instead, for a moment I had this really irrational annoyance. Like I’d been tricked. Like a proper spoiled little shit.”

He’s silent for a long moment while Trott tries to process this. Smith’s not looking at him, staring down at his hands as they twist and clench together.

“I only say that because it’s the same feeling I keep having now,” he continues, finally. “It’s like a digging in my chest that I can’t get rid of even though I know there’s no rational reason for it. And I used to think it was because of wanting to do more, then I thought it’s cause I suck at contributing as good as everyone else. I mean, you said you’re from a big group, everyone must’ve pulled their weight to keep that going, right? How do they treat the stragglers there? They as forgiving and soft-hearted as my lot?”

Trott squeezes his eyes shut.

_Why don’t you just tell him?_ A voice screams in his head, but the words seize up in his throat, and he knows he won’t be able to say them.

_He could help you._

_Or he might react unpredictably._ Because Smith is many things Trott’s not used to, too good to be true, but there’s a whisper in the back of his head that tells him there’s something not quite right, and the small interactions he’s seen between him and Ross certify that belief. If they really have been through the same shit, why are Ross’ eyes so much more blackened?

And the voice in his head, the voice that’s been there since he was young and only gets louder any time he finds something close to good, rises up again. _Who are you trying to fool, kid? You really think someone could care about you? You really think you’re ever gonna get outta here? You’re not smart enough on your own, not strong enough, you can pretend and dream all you want but you can’t get yourself out of your own damn mess._

_You think there’s anyone left alive who gives two shits about what’s happened to you?_

_No one fucking cares. No one cares about anything except their own self-interest, except maybe the ones they love –_

_And they don’t love you. You’ll find no salvation here or anywhere. Don’t be stupid. Don’t get your damn hopes up._

He shouldn’t. It really is stupid.

But Trott always has had a reputation of being the naive type.

So instead of keeping his mouth shut like he should, he takes a deep breath and says, quietly, “I disagree.”

“What?”

“I think it’s easy to compare yourself to others, especially in circumstances like this. I… I know what it feels like, feeling like you’ve got something to prove. There were these guys I ran with, way back, before all this. And I thought if I didn’t do certain things it would mean I was stupid or weak or something. Maybe I was, but you’re not. You’re brave and you’re kind and you do what you think is right. That’s what makes a person strong, that’s the most important thing.”

Smith looks shocked. Doesn’t seem to know what in the world to say. Trott bites his lip, nervously.

“The Dreamcast sucked, anyway,” he continues. He doesn’t know why the hell he’s still talking, except that this is the first time in a long time that he’s sat down with someone and they’re listening, rather than talking at or snapping at him, and even if he’s not fully confident that won’t change any second now, when he darts a glance up at Smith, the other man still looks friendly as ever. “Parents bought almost every console for me and that weren’t a good one.”

Something flickers across Smith’s face. Seems to Trott like he went elsewhere again, just for second, like he went to think about one thing and got trapped with another, blinking it away almost immediately.

“My parents were never around that much,” Smith continues slowly – hesitantly – and swallows. “They were good people, don’t get me wrong, they were great. We never wanted for anything. But it wasn’t for lack of effort, they worked their asses off to give me and my siblings everything, of material value anyway – though never that fabled console. So they worked long hours, so there was a lot of time we missed out on with them. I was the oldest so it was kinda left up to me to be in charge at home. I was the kind of big brother who’d give them loads of shit, but if I saw anyone else trying to mess with them, there’d be hell to pay, y’know what I mean?”

“I think so,” Trott whispers.

“Anyway, the past is best left in the past. As long as you learn from it there’s no point getting lost in it. Thinking too much is just, well – it sucks, when you know you’re never gonna see your parents or your little brother and sister again. Looking to the future’s not only important, it’s less mind-fucky.”

“It was my foster parents,” Trott murmurs, so softly he doesn’t even know if Smith will hear it. “My mum died when I was pretty young.”

Smith must’ve heard – he nods, sympathy shining in his eyes, and Trott swallows hard. He doesn’t mention the fucking significant gap between those two parental figures. He’s certain that underserved sympathy would swiftly disappear if he knew the full story. It’s the part that still manages to fuck things up however many years later, the only thing anyone seemed to care about. None of them lot had cared before when he told them about his mum – who gives a shit? He didn’t think Smith would, but – there’s that gentleness that always appears in his face when Trott meets his gaze. And Trott wonders again if this is some ploy to trap him into something – but Smith just waits for him to continue.

But Trott’s out of things to say, now.

“I suppose when the biters learn to understand us I could at least talk them half to death,” he jokes half-heartedly, and rolls his eyes.

“Got to make your mark in this world somehow. But sure, I’ll totally blame the fact that I don’t feel that useful on me not being the greatest ever fighter or builder or farmer.” He sighs, glancing around the room, and Trott sees his gaze lingers on the hoodies slung over the back of the couch and entangled with the blankets of what has become his bed. “That green one of mine suited you, if it weren’t for the size difference. That’s another one for the list. Loot. You never had to worry about your shirt size. One size fit all. Still – save files is where it’s at. The fact that save files don’t actually exist pisses me off sometimes.”

“Huh?”

“Like that would be the most useful game mechanic to have in real life.”

“Oh…”

“Imagine.” He bites his lip. “Be the easiest thing to wash away the past and have a second go but with all the knowledge you had before. Fucking sucks it’s not an actual thing.”

“That,” Smith adds, clicking his tongue. “And the fact that I can’t give my player character massive tits.”

Trott’s head tilts like a bewildered puppy, and he thinks it’s the longest he’s heard Smith laugh in return. It’s nice – makes him look happier and relaxed. Makes him seem less lost, less fearful – makes Trott, in turn, just a bit less cautious.

“What hobby have you kept up from the old world, then?” he asks, and it’s such an unexpected question that it takes Trott a moment to answer.

“I – what? Oh. I like drawing, I guess.”

He thinks he sees Smith’s eyes widen a little – sees something about that touch him, for whatever damn reason. It’s just a stupid nothing-statement, after all. But Smith stares at him a long moment, something thoughtful in his face. After a moment, he gets up from the chair and moves a few steps towards the window – only to hesitate again, glancing down to Trott, who sits watching him uncertainly.

“You gonna be happy eating potatoes every day?” Smith asks, at random again.

Trott nods, confused.

“I just wanted to check,” there’s something almost flustered in how shy Smith sounds suddenly. “Wasn’t sure if you were used to a certain kind of food or something better than root vegetables. I’m sure there’s a lot more opportunities for more varied meals in the city.”

Trott shrugs, a spike of hurt and humiliation shooting through his chest.

“I’m not fussy,” he whispers. “I’d not eaten anything for about a week before you found me. But I’ve gone longer than that before. Groups I was with never had enough for everyone.”

“Are you serious?” Smith asks.

It’s not quite the truth, but close enough, and Trott nods, curling in on himself. Smith stares at him, eyes searching – then jerks his head out towards the corridor.

“Well, good, cause you look like you could do with eating an entire fucking deer. Come on, we usually eat together as a group. You can join us. Only if you want,” he adds, again almost shyly, as Trott stares up at him in surprise. “Up to you, it’s no bother to anyone either way. I know the others would like to meet you but don’t feel like you have to cater to the nosey bastards.”

Trott nods, perhaps a bit too uncertainly. Because Smith smiles softly, moves and crouches down in front of him so their eyes are level, picks up the newly named Mochi from the floor and places her in Trott’s lap, not speaking until he sees Trott run a hand through the white fur, body relaxing.

“But you need to tell me one thing,” he continues, rather seriously, and for a moment Trott’s chest seizes, and _this is it_ , he thinks, _this whole thing is_ _just a trick after all, ha ha ha, stupid fucking Trott actually thought you might not want something from him for once_. But a moment later Smith asks, “What’s your preference, sweet or white potatoes?”

The world seems to warm again, and he can breathe.

“Sweet?” he replies, carefully. “I like the taste more and you can mash them up pretty good.”

“Good!” Smith says, and grins widely. It lights up his whole face in a way that nearly makes Trott smile too, that really does make him feel like he’s safe with this guy, and if he does flinch when the man sticks out a large hand and messes up his hair, he barely registers it. “The only sensible answer. They’re probably about to start on dinner soon. I know a few others we can get on our side. We can outnumber Tom and the other weirdos. Come on, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took a bit longer than I'd hoped but then I checked and saw it was almost 19000 words so I don't feel too bad lol
> 
> hope ya'll enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

_It’s Lewis who teaches him how to mend clothes._

_Smith’s felt useless for a long fucking time, and he feels even worse after he’s fully recovered from his injuries, when he can’t hide anymore that he barely learned to fight with melee weapons before he and Ross packed up and left, and for all his knowledge on guns he can’t shoot for shit unless the target’s close and completely still, and it’s embarrassing even if he plays it off like he doesn’t care._

_He’s expecting to be yelled at, because Lewis has got a short fucking fuse on him if people are acting like idiots, but he doesn’t. Just sits down with some stupid shredded Hawaiian shirt and says, okay, we start here._ This is the thread, this is the needle, this is how you do a fucking stitch _, and Smith hates it at first but not once does Lewis’s voice slip into condescension, not once does he act like this is different to how Sips is teaching Ross to fire a crossbow or hunt for food. Just another skill, just something else he can learn, to help contribute to the group._

_No matter what else happens, no matter what changes as the years go by and Smith learns to contribute in other ways and the hordes get larger and the fighting gets harder – he never forgets that, how the other man taught him, gave him a purpose, trusted him with something, how Lewis wasn’t a leader with an army of scared and desperate survivors but his teacher, his friend –_

“Yes, Lewis, I’m sure we're going to be okay.”

The heat’s finally relenting, pleasant sunlight spilling through the kitchen window as Smith stands packing fishing bait into separate containers. Outside, Ross is holding two bricks and shadowboxing. In the golden light everything feels a little dream-like, a little unreal. He keeps forgetting what he was just doing.

“Alright,” Lewis replies. Even in different rooms Smith can picture the concerned twist to his mouth, his face practically twitching like a hamster. It makes him smile. “But you even think you hear a biter you run straight back, you understand? No need to play hero today and definitely no going anywhere else other than the lake.”

“I got it, Lewis. We’ll be _fine_.”

Saying it aloud almost makes it feel like a guarantee. He was going stir-crazy staying in one room, but yesterday he and Sips had gone round checking the rabbit traps and it had refreshed his mind somewhat. It ended in a bit of a panic, however, when they returned and he’d been informed Ross was hurt, and then finding out what happened felt like he was being told zombies were real all over again. Like, what the fuck, that doesn’t happen.

But it’s lead to something good. Talking with Trott – fuck, it feels nice to call him by an actual name after so long – the man had even jolted him out of one of the strange dazes he keeps falling into, ones that even Ross’ calm words are preventing less and less – a phantom presence he’s constantly aware of – Griff, Rocco. _Saffy_.

It’s only been a few weeks since Ross nudged those names into his head but even with everything that’s going on he keeps getting these other flashes of not-quite memories, a ginger guy with a beard handing him a drink or a lady with a harsh Boston accent checking through a first aid kit, sometimes just the sound of people singing and laughing and him sitting inside a shelter playing card games with Ross and a dark-skinned young man who keeps making them laugh.

He wants to remember properly. Wants to know why these memories feel so _distant_.

But like hell he’s gonna let that stop him from having some damn fun.

“Okay. Well, if you wanna be back by mid-afternoon, we want to debrief everyone on those armoured biters – and it’d be good if Trott came so he can know what to expect when the horde eventually turns up.”

“Oh shit, you think we’re gonna be hit by a horde of _those_ things?”

“Noooo,” Lewis says, and laughs nervously. “I mean, I should fucking hope not, shit, if that happens I shall command you all to defend me while I dig a tunnel straight out of here. But truthfully, I’m not expecting to face many soon, if any. Your boy didn’t seem concerned about them, and he’s the only one who knows anything. He may well have been scared by those biters but he’s not panicked. I take that as a good sign. Besides, those things can’t be easy to… to manufacture, not like there’s a factory line producing them somewhere, God forbid.”

“Huh. That actually makes sense. You know what, you’re not actually as stupid as you act.”

“Oh fuck you! I hope the fish bite your dick off!”

He’s grinning by the time he heads outside. Ross’ injury terrified him yesterday. It’s usually the other way around, Ross fussing over Smith whenever they head out, and he has his reasons – and if anything was to happen to him, had their roles been reversed back then and Smith was the one left to deal with the mess, Smith is quite certain it would’ve broken him.

Knowing that Ross went through all the stress of taking care of Smith on his own makes his chest ache, and forever grateful that by some dumb luck and a hell of a lot of quick-thinking they ended up here.

He walks up behind his partner and watches, kicking up the dirt on the ground until Ross notices.

“Hey!” he calls out – Ross tilts his head, shoulders heaving. He’s just wearing a sleeveless top, his hands wrapped, and Smith can see the sweat glistening on his shoulders in the morning light. “I was gonna go fishing and thought I’d take Trott to give him a break from shit. Craig says it’d be good for him and Lewis is cool with it and all. That alright?”

“Fishing? You mean just the two of you?” Ross asks, and Smith nods.

“Yeah – I thought it’d be nice for him to do something after being sick for so long. And the lake’s like the safest place outside the base and it’s only a ten minute walk.”

“Don’t you – I mean… then fuck yeah, why not? I trust him to look after you,” Ross says, and Smith smirks. He watches as Ross turns away, dropping the bricks and stretching, and grins as he admires him for a moment.

Sometimes he wonders how he got this lucky. For all his life before Ross he was alone, convinced he was just too independent in his ways to ever find someone that he wouldn’t end up pushing away. But after he moved to the city, when Ross came along… suddenly it didn’t seem so impossible anymore.

It wasn’t a love at first sight, nothing so cliche. Ross only ever seemed to have one mood – positive, which could piss him off to no end when he wasn’t feeling up to joking around, and Smith actually kind of envied the other man’s position, saw him as someone who’d been handed everything in life including his higher paying job because of his posh upbringing at his fancy private school. But when the mask finally came off, when he saw Ross for who he truly was – not just gentle, not just kind, but so terribly hurt…

It was the first time he’d connected with another person at such a deep level. Oh, he’s loved others of course. He loved his family, he loves _this_ family, and he owes more to them than he can ever repay. But Ross is the first he trusted enough to properly open up about his insecurities to, the first he could talk to without fearing judgement in their eyes – the first he didn’t worry would see him as, for want of a better word, a weirdo.

After eight years they’re so comfortable with one another that Ross feels like an extension of himself, something constantly present and safe, that keeps him stable when he feels like he might fall apart.

His smile is still lingering as he turns away, picking up his bag, heading to where he’d last left his intended fishing buddy for the day.

Trott’s sitting on the ground, feet curled up under him, trying to teach Mochi to shake hands. Smith whistles a happy tune as he goes to meet him. The two of them had eaten with the group last night, everyone had been eager to introduce themselves but astute enough to know to give them space, and for the first time the smaller man hadn’t looked quite so lost.

Smith can’t help but feel protective.

He never imagined he’d be the one responsible for the other man, back when he’d jumped without thought into the river – how could he know what would come next, the extreme worry, all those long nights fearing the next cough would be the last… and this newer, intense curiosity not just about what happened to the man but who he _is_. Oh, he knows he’s been through shit, alright – the injuries, the slashes across his chest and stomach that still haven’t quite healed up yet, the bandaged ear that he keeps catching him tentatively poking at, the reasons for them, why they’re _there_ specifically, something so personal. Scarring, terrifying, it would make the strongest of people closed off and untrusting. 

But Trott – Trott who’s small and borderline malnourished, who’s hidden under tables and desks one too many times for Smith’s liking, who sleeps with one hand buried in Mochi’s fur, and who spoke such reassuring and kind words yesterday when he didn’t have to… it’s unexpectedly innocent. 

And what he’d said. _They won’t miss me._

That one line’s stuck in Smith’s head. Since he heard it, it’s harder to look at Trott and not think about all the shit Smith’s had building up inside him – all the shit that’s been there since the start. He used to be able to block it out. He wouldn’t think of how useless he’d felt, but of how Sips would always find him and ask for help with something even when he didn’t actually need it. Not of the mornings he’d wake with a weird sense of helplessness and confusion, but of Ross’ arm around him, the breath that tickled his ear – _they’ve always been here for you. Wouldn’t have survived a damn minute on your own. And they do it for no other reason than they want to, too. Despite everything, you feel wanted._

But even with that knowledge in his heart it still hasn’t stopped these other feelings, these strange, eerily deep-rooted feelings from creeping and digging and clawing around inside of him, catching him off guard, with no obvious triggers, seriously pissing him off.

Oh, it had really hit him suddenly yesterday, and he’d blurted out all that awkward shit in front of a dude he barely knew – but Trott just seemed so weirdly, genuinely _understanding_ by his ramblings on his stupid insecurities. It’s not what Smith expected from the guy – he expected Trott not to care. Because it’s clear care’s not something he’s been shown a lot of, if at all.

Smith might be an asshole, but he’s not totally devoid of empathy. Something just – doesn’t feel right here, and if Trott has lied about certain things because he’s scared, well… it changes things, a little. Still doesn’t make him any less certain he’s got a good heart, but makes it harder to be around him without worrying he’ll find some way to scare him, without being the same old Smith who speaks before he thinks.

“Trott!” he calls.

Trott twists to look at him, inquisitively. He seems less wary today than he ever has.

“I’ve got us blessing to go fishing from our great leader Lewis himself,” Smith says, crouching down on the opposite side of Mochi. “He let me pick from a bunch of his own gear. A fucking awesome fibre glass spinning one that makes them bite more and is great when you’re lacking patience, and we’ve got plenty of bait thanks to the abundance of creepy-crawlies during summer. Long as we get back in time for this group meeting Lewis wants to hold to make sure everyone’s prepared for any trouble that might be coming our way, that horde thing I told you about.”

Now Trott’s stiffened – he tilts his head to one side.

“We?” he asks softly, and Smith gives him a small smile.

“He figured we should all be involved,” he explains, “Just so everyone is on the same page as to what we should expect, give people the lowdown on those armoured ones.”

From the look on Trott’s face, he seems mostly comfortable with the idea now.

“I… you want me to come and help you with fishing?” he asks. “I’m not very good.”

“Good, cause neither am I. Don’t worry, no one’s expecting us to bring in a vital haul,” he winks, and Trott relaxes a bit.

“Jus’ long as you know I won’t be no good at it,” he murmurs.

“You think I give a shit about that? You haven’t considered the idea that this is just my way of getting to spend some more time with you?” Smith points out.

Trott considers this for a moment. It’s easy to think if Smith were in his position, he’d be brave, he’d see that he was obviously with good people, he’d be able to open up and relax without fear or hesitation – but truth be told, if it was just him, alone, he probably would be absolutely shitting himself surrounded by strangers.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m sure you’re itching to do something. Recovery is boring, trust me, I know. You wouldn’t have been reading those books if you weren’t bored, so let’s go and have some fun. But obviously, I’m not forcing you to come. You wanna just sit and chill here, then we can do that instead. And if you get tired, or shit starts hurting, just tell me and we’ll come straight back.”

Trott bites his lip. He looks away, and Smith can practically see him thinking – but after a moment he nods.

“Okay, thank you,” he murmurs, then a little louder, “I can help carry stuff, I can do that easy and I’m stronger now, I’ll do what you say, you don’t have to worry.”

Smith lets out a short breath of laughter. There’s such a blatant submissiveness about that response that unnerves him, but he tries not to let it show. Smith wonders, suddenly, what Trott really thinks of him – of his whole self-pitying rant, of his interactions with the others over dinner, of his relationship with Ross. He’d cut his own hair last night, and he’s shaved, and the bruises have all faded; he looks different, it makes him look even younger, and though not much shows on the other man’s face, Smith doesn’t doubt those keen eyes pick up on more than he realises.

Sips walks past then, sauntering into the tool shed and knocking over what sounds like a pile of rocks inside. The thuds make Trott jump like a startled bird, and Smith watches him shoot over a quick wide-eyed gaze before hunching over as Sips exits and heads over, standing over them with that wry smirk he wears so well.

For a moment something possessive curls in his chest. Makes him want to reach over and pull the smaller man into a hug and, at the same time, tell Sips to fuck off and leave them in peace and how _dare_ he scare Trott with his stupid noisy work.

Sips chucks a piece of rope at Mochi for her to chew and clocks Smith’s barely hidden glare, eyebrows raising when he sees Trott’s reaction to his appearance.

“You alright, kid?” he prompts, and Trott’s eyes snap up to his. His cheeks turn a light red and he glances at Smith, looks momentarily horrified, then starts shaking his head.

“Sorry, I – I wasn’t trying to be rude, just.” A weak gesture towards Sips’ chest. “I, um. I just… I’m sorry. I’d never seen that before.”

At once the tension flees Smith’s shoulders and he lets out a great snort. Of course – he’s gotten so used to it he barely notices it anymore. Sips’ stupid, stuffed, squirrel-head talisman. It started as a dumb joke, the fucker had been messing with their garden for weeks, then when Sips had finally killed it he decided to wear the head whenever he was on farming duty, as a warning to all other squirrels who might be watching, and now he claims it works. There it dangles, a ridiculous good-luck charm, mouth forever open in a state of either pure anger or pure terror, it’s impossible to tell.

“Oh my God,” he says, and Sips looks like he can’t decide whether to be embarrassed or indignant. “It’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Trott glances between them, seeming torn between agreeing and worried about pissing Sips off.

“It’s… cool,” he manages.

“Cool my ass,” Smith declares, “It’s fucking stupid, and we’re the ones who have to look it in its dead fucking eyes whenever Sips talks to us! Like he’s some crazy witch doctor!”

“I think it’s a pretty decent first try at taxidermy. And this dead fucking thing is an important part of my farmer aesthetic,” Sips says, with mock-irritation, and Smith rolls his eyes, getting up to grab a stick and walking up to poke it against the thing’s nose.

“It’s way too fucking midlife crisis is what it is.”

He starts laughing, and after a minute, Trott does too – well, kind of – stifled, little giggles, so quiet that Smith only notices when he glances over at him and sees the other man covering his mouth with one hand. He falls silent, watching in an almost awe, and Trott laughs a second longer before looking up at him.

For a second – his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement, a real smile still tugging at his lips – he looks… _nice_ , in a way Smith hasn’t thought of before. In a way that takes him by surprise. But Trott seems flustered, and stops quickly.

“Mochi, come play,” he says, picking up the rope and scampering away in such a rush he nearly trips over the excitable white dog.

Smith stares after him, bemused. Sips is watching him too.

“That’s the first time we’ve heard him laugh,” he comments after a minute, and Smith nods, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

“You sure you don’t wanna tag along with us?” he asks, and Sips smiles a bit.

“I’d like to. But I think it’s better if it’s just the two of you, for now. There’s something in the way he acts around you, Smith,” he adds, turning and giving Smith a searching look. “I think he trusts you and you _have_ been the only one he’s seen every day, but there’s something else. Yesterday, over dinner…”

“The only words he said to anyone including me were _yes, no_ , and _thank you_.”

“True, but… he was watching you, and not in an _I’m keeping my guard up way_.” Sips pauses, and makes a frustrated sound. “I dunno. If I had to take a wild guess I’d say he was glad to have you by his side. Like it’s more than just a trust thing, like he’s looking to you as some sort of guide.”

Smith’s silent a moment, thinking about it.

“He says groups he was with in the past never had enough food to go around. Yet he’s survived six years even so,” he ponders finally. “And… he says they won’t miss him, said it like it was nothing. Do you think that’s just cause that means it’s one less _mouth_ to feed? And he speaks of this other group who send out those monsters and says they’re the ones who hurt him, then does that mean they have some personal vendetta against him, like revenge?”

Sips doesn’t seem to know what to say, and after a moment he lets out a low sigh.

“Most important thing is he’s with us now and we’re gonna make certain he’s never hurt like that again,” he mutters, “But we do need to understand what happened, too. Seems to me he’s already confided in you, he trusts in you to some degree. Keep being his friend and see where it leads. And this may be an assumption but I get a feeling this whole thing, Trott turning up, it’s been good for you." 

Smith sends him a questioning look. That’s news to him – but it doesn’t feel wrong, and he can tell from the sincere expression on Sips’ face that he’s not just saying that to make him feel nice.

_Maybe Ross will give me a better read on this_ , he thinks, and smiles as he shakes his old doubts off and focuses on the fact that he’s about to spend some time with his new friend. _Remember, you’ll never be going through anything alone._

* * *

“Oh shit, Hulmesy’s here too!” Smith exclaims

As he and Trott exit the gate, Smith sees Mark sit up a little from his cushion on the ground, already back to looking like his cheeky old self. He’s not doing any work – but he’s instructing the others now, giving out orders as to where the spike traps should be reinforced.

There’s one positive to be taken from the lateness of the horde, preparation is at an all time high.

“Where are you two off to?” Hulmes replies.

“Fishing – surprised to see you’re back out here already. But dictatorship really suits you.”

To prove his point, Hulmes starts yelling and waving his arms, directing the two who are hammering at the reinforcements arming the front of the base. Duncan, who he hasn’t had the opportunity to speak much with recently, and Ravs, who is rather eagerly fixing pieces of metal along the wood. One good thing about those biters, they’d given them some high quality metal to put to use, once Tom had finally managed to break their damn shells open, and Smith would be lying if he said there wasn’t something incredibly impressive about the craftsmanship of whoever created these abominations. Lewis was right last night when he’d said whoever these people were, they were fucking good – careful, smart, ambitious, and able to pull off outrageous ideas in risky circumstances.

A bit further away, Lydia also turns from her work when she sees Smith and smiles, lifting her sunglasses so he can see the warmth in her eyes.

“Hey, Smith. Bouphe said she’d seen you preparing to head out. Say if you want me to come and stop working here – hint, hint.”

“Nah, we’re good thanks,” Smith replies, walking over – “What are you doing there? Is that a bear trap?”

“Careful!” she yelps, as he reaches out a hand towards the metal object she’s holding. “You don’t ask, _is that a bear trap,_ and touch it with your bare hands, you mad man – and for your information – isn’t this what you and Tom were going on about? – you were telling him to salvage those springs, wanted to make something that could bite a biters leg clean off.”

Smith blinks. Well, yes, he had. Didn’t mean he’d expected the other man to implement the idea so fast, _especially_ a Smith idea.

“Hey, Trott!” Lydia declares, peering around Smith to look at him. Trott stiffens a little. “Just scream if you need help and I’ll come rescue you from this ape.”

Trott nods, the seriousness of which he does so making the taller two laugh. Ross said she looked out for him yesterday, he recalls, though Smith’s more than aware of her quirks… how her friendliness could stretch into over-exuberance. Still – Trott doesn’t seem to shy away as much as he has done with the others, head tilting in a curious manner at their laughter.

“Think we’re gonna get along just fine, my friend. Saying that, I could actually use your help on something. Won’t be long, just a minute or so. Nina over there wants to have a little word with Smith and that means you’re the incredibly lucky guy who gets to help me paint these traps with glowy stuff in the meantime, right? We don’t want the wrong legs getting chopped off.”

“Yeah,” Trott replies, very cautiously.

“Great! Have a look at these traps with me, let me know what you think about my artistry so far. I’ve got a unique vision in mind – we have to paint these just right and we can create a glow-in-the-dark masterpiece.”

Smith’s a bit surprised by the slight twinge in his chest as Trott leaves his side for Lydia’s – but at that moment Nina whistles loudly with two fingers, and he turns and goes to greet her.

He stops a few feet away, one eyebrow raised. “You summoned me.”

She approaches Smith first, tugging him into a quick hug – so brief it probably just looks like two friends greeting each other, but Smith can feel the way she squeezes him, and how her eyes flick over him afterwards, making sure he’s okay. Once the concern would’ve embarrassed him, now he appreciates it. Knows Nina won’t ever force him to talk about anything, but the support’s there. That’s what matters.

When he’s with Nina it’s different than when he’s with the others. Almost similar to how he feels with Ross, not in the romantic sense, obviously, but everything feels a little steadier and calmer. It’s fucking odd to think about it too much though, and he’s learnt to just accept it for what it is – luck. He’s fucking lucky to have someone else around who can have that effect on him.

Nina peers at him. They’ve not talked alone in a while, but she still sticks her hand out and takes Smith’s as easily as before.

“How are you?” Casual, but attentive.

“Good,” he murmurs. Without wanting to go into every little detail and emotion of the last few weeks that’s the most accurate answer he can give. At this very moment he can genuinely say he’s feeling good.

“I’m glad. It’s not often you save someone’s life in two different ways and then see the one you love get injured in such a scary way. But you’ve been fucking incredible and taking it all in your stride.” She gazes at Smith steadily, seeming to see something he isn’t aware is there. “It’s not unusual, y’know, to feel absolutely overwhelmed by it all. It happens to all of us.”

“I guess I do feel different some days,” Smith replies.

“Yeah?” Nina asks.

“I think so,” he says softly. “Y’know… self-confidence is always something I’ve prided myself on, and it’s what others seem to see in me often. But, I guess, it’s not like a cocky thing? It’s more like – like I’m aware of my limits more than anything, confident that I suck at a lot of things in life – but it doesn’t bother me, normally, least it hasn’t for a long time. It’s just… y’know, cool, whatever, that’s just who I am. But then some days I suppose it can get a bit much, like it eats at me to the point where I feel like I can’t get anything done. I’ve had a few of those days recently, what with everything. But today’s not one of them, trust me.”

Nina stares at him for a long moment.

“Okay,” she says finally, and gives a decisive nod. She lets go of his hand and steps back, jerking her head towards her partner. “Well, I’ve definitely had days where I don’t know what on Earth I’m supposed to do with that one, he’s got a way to go until he’s out of my bad books this time, fucking hell what an idiot…”

She trails off, glancing at Trott, a flicker of gentleness in her eyes. That reminds him.

“Hey, Lyds!” he calls out. “I want my buddy back.”

At that, Lydia waves her temporary helper away with a grin and a thank you. Smith’s quick to gesture him over.

“Trott – Nina here is the best fucking artist I know and she has a bunch of drawing and painting stuff that I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you borrowing, right Nina? Trott told me he likes drawing.”

Trott hesitates. He glances at Nina, who looks mildly surprised, but nods with a warm smile. “And I’m always looking to learn from fellow artists. You ever done landscapes?”

“I… a little.”

“Awesome! It’s easy to forget how beautiful this part of the world is sometimes. I think it’s important to take a step back and truly take it all in once in a while, y’know?”

Trott studies her face for a long moment, then nods.

“… yeah.”

Nina smiles. “I’ll look forward to it,” she says, and heads off towards Lydia and her bear trap extravaganza, now busy painting a big smiley face into the ground. Smith sees Trott watch her as she leaves, but before long he’s peering up at Smith expectantly.

“Everyone’s pretty busy, see? Best time for us to escape,” Smith points out with a smirk. “Helping out Lydia wasn’t too bad, was it?”

He could swear there’s a shy smile on the other man’s face as he shakes his head, but he drops it so low he doesn’t get a good enough glimpse, and whatever it is turns into a clench of pain as he coughs loudly. It’s the first time Smith’s heard ones this harsh in a few days, his chest had been sounding a lot better last time Craig checked, and the knee-jerk reaction to offer comfort is one he’s still getting used to. It’s funny being on this side of things, he’s always been the awkward one when it comes to physical contact – not like Trott is, not like scared, he’s simply not a touchy-feely type of guy.

Yet now he can’t help reaching out – hey, it’s okay, I’m here, a brief squeeze on a small shoulder. It’s become a second-nature.

When the coughs subside and he’s reassured enough Trott’s okay, they make their way back to the boys. It’s a real nice barricade they’ve got going for them, with its spear point spikes and metal-plated armour. Looks tough. He’s been wanting to see them upgraded for a while.

The full-body shields are lying flat on the ground – beasts of things, something he knows can take hit after hit and keep on protecting. Now they come with added blades. Duncan’s letting out a long, low whistle as they return.

“It’s pretty scary,” he says.

Hulmes is nodding, seriously.

“An understatement,” he agrees, “And it still leaves us with more questions than answers!”

“No,” Ravs joins in, spinning a hammer in his hands. “It leaves us with the knowledge that maybe it’s time to get the fuck out of here.”

“Cause that’s such an easy thing to do,” Hulmes rolls his eyes at him, and sighs. “A foreboding knife isn’t good enough reason to leave this place, I don’t think. And there’s nowhere _to_ go… without heading into completely uncharted territory, not to mention how we’d even begin to transport everything we have here.”

“What’s this about a knife?” Smith asks, and Hulmes turns to him, swiftly.

“Of all the people I’d have thought this would’ve been something that interested you.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. Last horde: Ross doing the cleanup, that knife that he found on one of the biters.” He stretches down and lays a hand on the side of his ankle, rubbing it absentmindedly, eyes glazing over briefly.

Smith’s beyond confused, and no one seems to be providing any extra answers, like that’s all the info he needs. Out of nowhere something metallic hits the back on his tongue, he can’t properly describe it, it’s like – something like charred beef, mixed with an acrid, burning plastic smell. It almost causes him to throw up then and there.

“You’re welcome to keep that jacket, Trott, it looks way better on you and it’s too warm for me right now anyway,” Hulmes is saying, neither him or anyone else seeming to smell what Smith does, “What’s up with you? Did you just fart or something?”

“There’s something that smells fucking disgusting round here,” Smith says, momentarily too sickened to speak – but the others just sniff the air and shrug.

“Yeah, sure, so that’s codeword for, yes I did just fart?” Hulmes drawls.

“You really don’t smell that?”

“Uh… I don’t think so. What’s it smell like?”

“Like something fucking awful, dude, don’t you… don’t – fuck, I don’t know it’s kind of going now, maybe there’s a bit of biter rotting away somewhere near. It probably just caught the wind. It was revolting, whatever it was.”

“You mean this non-existent wind we’ve been getting for months?” Hulmes says, but appears to give him the benefit of the doubt. Smith shuts his eyes and opens them again, slowly. That stench, it’s not the first time he’s smelt it, he’s remembering now – it’d been there when he was waiting for Ross to scout out the hospital and he’s _sure_ there’s been times before that too.

“You know what guys, I think I’ve got something wrong with me,” he admits, finally. “Ever since… since I got hurt things don’t seem to work quite the way they used to.”

“Things don’t work?” Ravs asks. “Like what? You mean your allergies and shit?”

“No, not just that. Well, partly that, it’s definitely worse in the countryside,” Smith says. “But it’s… it can be some fucking weird things.”

“Like?”

“Like, I don’t think I can rely heavily on my senses all that much? I mean, I did get shot in the head… well, grazed… and it was my chin not my skull. But maybe that, I dunno, shook things up a little? All I know is sometimes things happen and for me they do happen but in reality they… don’t.”

“Wait, what the fuck?” Duncan chimes in.

“Exactly my reaction, Duncan,” Smith says, glancing at him – then Trott, who’s head is tilted to one side again, seeming to listen closely – distractedly wonders if it’s an old habit or one he’s had to pick up due to his injury. “And I guess I’d kinda grown used to it happening cause in the past I always brushed it off. But nowadays it’s not so easy, has me second-guessing myself and you guys know I’m not normally one to do that.”

“Do you feel any different when it happens?” Ravs asks. “Like, get headaches or something?”

“No, nothing so bad, except deep down it doesn’t _feel_ right,” Smith struggles to explain. “I know it sounds stupid but it just – _doesn’t_. Like there’s this one thing constantly trying to prove these things are genuine and I should pay attention. And then there’s another that’s poking and laughing at me for ever believing it to be true. And I’m not particularly fond of either of them. It’s not too bad, don’t worry, it’s more like an occasional annoying little tick.”

Hulmes hasn’t said anything for a while, when Smith looks to him he’s stroking his chin in deep consideration.

“Weird,” he declares finally.

“You’re telling me!” Smith cries, throwing his hands up. “Anyway, now you know about it, I’m a fucking crazy guy who might very well be the weak link in terms of general skill but don’t you ever take me for granted, because if there’s one thing I’m great at it’s calling out everyone’s bullshit, including my own; that’s why I need to tell you, Hulmes, I get that you want to look all big and tough being out here after almost dying or whatever you were attempting to do yesterday, but you’re useless, these guys know what they’re doing, you’re just getting that lovely cushion dirty, you should really go inside and cook Nina an apology dinner or something, instead of being a sitting, bossy, little duck.”

“Cook up something nice for Mochi, too,” Ravs suggests. “If you make her your best friend, you can be sure Nina’s going to forget that she’s supposed to be mad at you. Like when couples have a kid to save their marriage, you can adopt a fluffy white daughter who won’t even be emotionally scarred if you have sex in front of her.”

They stare at him – then Smith laughs, and shoots him a thumbs up.

“Fucking great idea, Ravs! If you’re going to be hanging out with her, you could also hop around and pick up all the dog shit while you’re at it.”

Hulmes rolls his eyes.

“Alright. Point taken. I trust you guys to handle things here. Duncan, you haven’t said anything stupid yet so you’re in charge – Smith, if you keep talking shit I will make it _my_ mission to shit myself whenever you’re on laundry duty –”

“That reminds me,” Duncan interrupts. “I ate four cans of alphabet soup yesterday. Probably the biggest vowel movement I’ve ever had.”

“– and your leadership is immediately revoked.”

There’s a pause, then the four of them start giggling, like children, and Smith can only grin at them fondly as he tries to catch his breath.

It doesn’t take long for him to notice the way Trott’s staring at them all; there’s not exactly much cover or shadowed corners out here so he had been making use of Smith’s tall form and keeping behind him. But now, he’s stepped out a little and might be half at ease, certainly curious by the interaction between everyone.

_Go on, join in, have a laugh with us._

He doesn’t, but instead his hand brushes against the bottom of Smith’s shirt, and for a moment his fingers latch onto the fabric almost instinctively. Smith halts his breath, and has to try his damned hardest not to react in any way. He waits, heart thumping, until Trott seems to catch himself, freezes briefly, and lets go – and it’s dumb, it’s so, so _fucking_ dumb, but that tiny act, that glimmer of trust, it suddenly makes him feel incredibly determined.

And that thing – that thing that Mark had said, that he’d somehow… already chosen to forget? Suddenly, it comes burning to the front of his mind, and this time he doesn’t shy away from it.

“Hey, that thing you said Ross was talking about.”

“What about it?”

“Is that something I’m supposed to know about or is it cool I have no idea about any knife? I’ve been thinking how I might’ve missed out on some shit looking after this one and all that, and I’d be a bit… out of the loop, and Ross has been the one I mainly rely on to keep me up to date and such. But what you’re saying is Ross, what? – Ross found something important last horde?”

There’s something odd in Mark’s face in the pause that follows, and Smith stares intently at him.

_We haven’t even had a proper minute alone recently._

Fuck. He’s been so distracted with looking after Trott that he hadn’t realised, for weeks now, they hadn’t spent any time together – no time to sit and chat – barely even sleep in the same _bed_. Is that why he’s only just finding out about this discovery now? It’s something he’s not considered before, the idea that Ross might be keeping stuff from him – for a moment, all the old insecurities come back. For a moment, he can’t help but feel utterly useless again.

“You sure he didn’t mention it?” Mark questions quietly.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I actually had a fucking clue about anything,” he snaps, and he sees something guilty in how Mark’s eyes flicker away and shoulders hunch.

Ravs and Duncan don’t seem to notice anything different, and the latter answers him with a chuckle.

“Oh right. Trust Ross. Sometimes it really does surprise me how, well – he’s a bit of a scatterbrain sometimes, he said he only told Lewis about it first and then Sips found out, and… I guess he just forgot about who knew after news spread, and like you said, you’ve been a bit out of the loop recently. Basically, Smith, Ross found a knife on one of the biters from the last horde, like one that it would have had on it when it was alive. And there was blood on that knife, rotten blood, like they’d been fighting. And it was still fresh, like they’d been fighting recently, you see. Any of that ringing any bells now? He might’ve downplayed it while you were dealing with other stuff.”

For a moment Smith wants to snap at him. To lash out and let himself be angry so that he doesn’t have to feel hurt. But it’s not Duncan’s fault what happened, and of course he’s oblivious – why wouldn’t he be? They’re all fucking oblivious to what’s happened. Even Hulmes. Even Smith. That’s the situation Ross has put him in, isn’t it, the deceitfulness? Just a whole lot of God damn awkwardness. 

“I honestly don’t recall hearing about that before,” he admits. “Perhaps he did and I blanked it cause I was too stressed about other stuff. But that is… scary, I guess, and telling. Thinking how… how everything around you can go to shit with no warning.”

Trott’s looking a bit more tense again, eyes darting around uncertainly. But he’s not retreated, he’s sticking by Smith’s side.

“You thinking about what happened before?” Mark asks, quietly.

“Nah, I was too busy dying to remember any of it,” Smith deadpans.

“You spoken to Ross about this?” Ravs asks. “About what you said before? You should. Who knows, maybe he can think of something that might be the cause –”

“I’ve asked a couple of times if there’s anything that happened around that time but he always tells me he also doesn’t remember much. You guys know what he’s like, I don’t want to ruin this happiness he’s found for himself by going on and on,” Smith says, curtly. “He’s always said he’s happy where he is now and would rather not linger on half-baked memories. He tells me not to worry because it’s nothing serious. So he doesn’t want to think about it, Ravs, and I’m not gonna fucking push it, not after everything he’s been through.”

“Jesus. Well, that really sucks,” Ravs says, and usually the pity would be loathsome, but it’s Ravs, and he’s family, and Smith doesn’t want to take it out on him.

“Yeah,” he grunts instead, and takes a deep breath. “It does.”

He shakes himself. His skin feels too hot, like someone’s holding an open flame right up to him. That horrible smell starts creeping back –

He strides past them with a few short nods and reaches out a beckoning hand for Trott to follow.

“Come on,” he says, suddenly wanting space, wanting to get away, to change the scenery, to leave at least some of these unwanted thoughts in the dust. “Let’s see who’s really the worst at fishing.”

* * *

Smith has no idea what sort of survival skills Trott might have picked up over the years, but what he does notice as they’re walking to the lake is that – when he’s not wheezing or coughing – the guy’s got a whole way of travelling almost completely silent, makes Smith extra aware of every time he scuffs his boot against a root or brushes past a leaf. And since they’ve arrived he’s not heard a peep out of him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet away and Smith’s been giving him some space to take in everything and sort himself out, but he’s noticing now the other man is a little _too_ still, like, frozen-stiff still.

Trott ducks his head away just as Smith gets close enough to see what he’s doing.

“How’s it going?” he asks, only to pause. “You okay there? Something wrong with that one?”

Trott swallows, fists clenching in his lap. Smith regards a number of dead worms in front of him, and the currently empty fishing hook. 

“No,” Trott murmurs. “I…”

“Trott?”

It’s strange being able to pick up on the changes in body language, when he’s always had to rely on Ross in the past to be the observant one with others emotions. But right now, for Smith, it’s as clear as day; Trott looks like a fucking marionette with its strings pulled taut, shoulders back and tight, spine rigid.

“I don’t know how to put it on,” he admits, a slight quiver to his voice.

“Oh?” Smith queries. His voice softens a little. “My bad, I thought you said you did.”

“I’ve seen other people do it, but… I never actually fished proper before, we had nets that we used… but I lost mine,” Trott replies, quietly. “I mean, I don’t wanna mess it up, this is your stuff. Maybe I could just stay on lookout – I mean, it’s up to you, but I don’t really know what I’m doing, I’m sorry I lied.”

Smith stares at him for a long moment. Trott can’t seem to look at him, but Smith can see the sharp profile of his jaw as it clenches. He thinks of the scars he and Ross had seen, the older ones, the ones that were still visible anyway, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath.

“Hey,” Smith says finally. “You didn’t lie, I just made assumptions like I always do. You’ve told me now so it’s cool, and we’re here to have fun together. I’ll have you baiting like a pro in no time.”

“I thought I could figure it out,” Trott murmurs. “Sorry.”

Smith gives him a considering look. Then he reaches out to beckon – Trott jerks back automatically, and they both freeze, a long, awkward pause before Smith lowers his hand, his eyes never leaving the smaller man.

“Come here, I’ll show you,” he says softly, and walks over to his own line. After a moment’s hesitation, Trott stands to join him warily. Smith hands him the hook and gets to his knees, partly so Trott doesn’t have to crane his neck – also so he’s not such a towering presence.

“Start by hooking it through about here,” he says, gesturing to a spot on the wriggly bugger. “Go on. Mind your fingers. Now you just gotta slide it up and do the same a bit lower down.”

He can’t help the smirk that appears on his face as a memory pops into his head – _fuck, been a while since you’ve thought of that day_.

_(“What the fuck, why is something so simple so frustrating?” he hisses. “There’s something wrong with me, I swear, how the fuck are you putting up with me for so long?”_

_“Because I’m not expecting you to be an expert straight away. And you are learning. I wouldn’t waste my time if I didn’t know you could do it.”)_

Smith remembers watching with a frown as Lewis had continually, patiently taught him. Now he can barely believe what he’s hearing himself saying – “That’s right,” and “Okay, good job,” and “Just like that!” – his voice as gentle and encouraging as a fucking preschool teacher. This whole manner… it’s not what he expects from himself, but Smith has a strong sense of when he’s doing the right thing. He always has, always will, even when people around him tell him he’s wrong, when he gets this feeling it always somehow turns out exactly the way he hoped. In this moment, Trott trusts him to teach him – whatever other shit’s going on doesn’t matter right now.

“See? You’re better than me now,” he murmurs. Trott’s got his tongue poking out slightly, and he keeps darting little, hopeful glances at Smith.

There’s a certain eagerness that Smith was not expecting from him. Not after all their previous interactions, not when Trott still gets nervous every time Smith’s movements are a little too sudden, fearfulness beaten into him, haunted by unknown tormentors, with apparently no one out there to miss him. And yet now, after this one strange exchange, it’s almost like he’s regarding Smith in an entirely new light.

Smith isn’t sure what to make of it, not yet.

He’s clearly not frightened anymore, which is great, but there’s something uncomfortable about how wide Trott’s eyes are as he looks at Smith after he explains each step – the relieved slump to his shoulders when he hooks his second worm on his own and Smith nods in approval, for the tiny smile at his, “See, like that! Awesome!”

It doesn’t sit right in his stomach.

But right now…

Right now, there’s not point in dwelling on it, Smith can’t let himself get distracted.

He gives Trott a big grin, pointing out to the lake.

“Right! Race is on! First one to catch a fish – if you win I’m fucking bellyflopping straight in.”

* * *

They have a good time.

Trott lasts longer than he was expecting, only visibly flagging after two hours or so – a little shaky by the end of it, but his eyes remain bright and alert, and thankfully there haven’t been any more moments of flinching or cowering away from Smith, who’s not sure how much more of that he could’ve taken anyway.

In fact, it’s probably the most Smith’s ever seen him smile – especially after he conceded defeat and went through with his promise. Even if the fish Trott had caught was smaller than his hand, and Smith had helped him reel it in, his ungraceful plunge into the water was more than worth it to see that smile linger there long after the fact.

It’s not quite a proper smile, still a little cautious, a kind of rustiness to the way the corners of his mouth quirk up, but he’s loved seeing it all the same.

In the end they find themselves packing up with seven fish, a couple of bass and some crappies.

And Smith – Smith’s head is clearer and calmer than it’s been in a long while, the whole trip acting like a refreshing breeze.

He thinks perhaps the last time he felt as in the moment as this it had been at night, back in that pub, drinking and singing away six years ago. He’d been playfully teasing Ross. Ross had been pretending to get annoyed but there was no way to hide his rosy cheeks, reddened from laughing too much. _I can’t take you anywhere, can I?_ Those were the last words Smith remembers hearing – he’d drawn something rude on the window pane, he thinks.

Even when it all went to shit, when the screaming started, he’d still felt composed and at the ready. Smith had made sure Ross got out first, used all his strength to push through the panicked bodies – out into the street where things weren’t much better. There was too much potential for danger to find them before help would, so it’s Smith who makes the decision to find shelter, leading the two of them down the quietest alleys, keeping a constant eye out and making sure Ross is always by his side.

Despite a few setbacks – it’s impressive, when Smith looks back to those first few days when nothing fucking made any sense in a city they knew next to nothing about, yet they still somehow survived when so many others didn’t. Hiding out at that museum, hearing the transmission on the radio, mapping out a route – trying to lighten the mood with rather pathetic jokes about a zombie army and the ‘Marine Corpse’ that was probably as lame in context as out of it, and then he’d had the hiccups for about five minutes, and _that’s_ what’d made the other two laugh – and even hearing laughter, then, seemed to ease the fear up a bit and made him feel that, no, all was not lost.

After that everything goes a bit fuzzy – Smith has to grudgingly admit that. Obviously, he remembers arriving at Redwood, being astounded by the sheer size of the place, and getting his first orders. Their tent had been right in the centre – he remembers how he couldn’t get to sleep the first night, there were too many sounds and he’d just spent over a week jumping at every little creak and thud. He doesn’t remember what he and Ross spoke of that night. That bothers him more than it should.

_If you ever get the chance to go back there._ Even if he knows things were far from perfect, even if it ended fucking horribly, even if he has absolutely no reason to want to return…

Part of him still sees it as a distorted haven in his mind. Still sees it as some twisted old oasis in the desert of apocalypse. It’s stupid, because he can safely assume most of whatever they’d left behind’s long gone by now, but still –

But still –

_Don’t be stupid. You weren’t going to let this dumb feeling start biting at you again – you fucking promised yourself that none of that shit matters anymore. There’s nothing back there for you. You don’t need to remember. And even if you did have a photographic memory, you know it wouldn’t make any difference._

_There’s nothing so important that would change anything now._

Trott allows him to check on his dressings again when they’re about to leave. He seems uneasy, but Smith knows he trusts him with this – he just gets grossed out when he catches a glimpse of the healing wounds. A certain sadness there too, sometimes.

“Least you’ve still got a pretty face to look at,” he teases, grinning further when the man squirms under his gaze, cheeks turning a light pink. “Imagine getting shot in it, I couldn’t look at my handsome mug for ages, such a shame,” he murmurs, and is met with a pair of kind, worried eyes and feels a sharp pang in his chest. He laughs, and gives Trott’s head a playful nudge before turning away.

Trott remains at his heels as he goes to pack away their catches but as soon as Smith goes to pass him a fish he looks vaguely disgusted and gives him his best puppy dog eyes. Smith can’t help his laugh, the swell of fondness in his chest as he wiggles it childishly in the air.

“Alright, you baby, you can go and check over there to see I haven’t left anything behind.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you did catch the most after all, so you can leave me to pack up your winnings.”

Trott stares at him in a kind of amazement before scurrying away, and Smith rolls his eyes as he finishes up. It doesn’t take long, a few minutes later they’re heading back; though he’s extra aware Trott’s getting slower and slower, and Smith watches closely until he spots the man wince after one particularly steep step down. He lets out an exaggerated yawn and goes to find a suitable seat.

“Yo – let me rest here a minute, this shoe’s rubbing on my heel. Take a seat by old Smithy, come on.”

They both perch on the fallen tree, a large ’T’ carved into the side of it, and Smith can only chuckle to himself at the thought of Tom deliberately taking time to mark out his territory. Trott’s staring thoughtfully at an empty wasps nest, but his silence doesn’t seem laced with fear. After a little while he swallows, and turns to Smith, hesitantly.

“Your leader…”

“You can just call him Lewis,” Smith replies, grinning. “What about him?”

“He’s really nice.”

There’s something almost starstruck in Trott’s voice, and Smith has to snort.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He is. He knows a real leader gets the best out of his team and he’s fucking good at it. Earned all our respect, too, never once demanded or forced it. Like that stick insect ever could, anyway.”

“I like that,” Trott murmurs, and bites his lip. Smith looks at him, thinks how Trott flinched when he couldn’t put a stupid worm on a stupid hook. Once again, something very unconformable stirs up in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, Trott, with us you don’t ever have to worry about fucking up or making mistakes,” he says. “Cause there’ll always be somebody who’s got your back. Nobody knows everything. We’re all just trying to learn and survive and take care of one another as best we can.”

Trott looks up at him again, jaw clenched like he’s tasted something sour.

“Fuck whoever made you think any differently,” Smith says after a moment – he’s not so much angry with whoever those people were as… well, he is, but not just for obvious reasons. Angry that the guy who’s so eager to please and one who looks up to Lewis would be taken advantage of. Angry that only a few small acts of kindness means he’s latched all his trust onto Smith, of all people. Angry at how stupid he feels trying to figure out a way to help him, how useless. “Would I be wrong to think the people you were with weren’t much like Lewis and the others here?”

“They were the kind of people I belonged with,” Trott spits, with such sudden vehemence that Smith’s whole face goes slack.

“Hey! It’s okay,” he quick to reassure when Trott’s eyes widen and his face pales to the point where Smith fears he’s about to throw up. “You can say what you want. I’m not gonna get mad. Ever. Words are just words.”

Trott swallows. He doesn’t answer, but Smith continues to watch over him, sees his head lower and his hands twist into the fabric of Mark’s jacket. He’s so tense he’s practically shaking, and it’s obvious there’s something he’s not sharing here.

“It doesn’t matter,” Smith says finally, when it becomes clear Trott isn’t gonna talk. “None of it matters, not to me. I thought it would. When I first saw you all I wanted to know was what happened to you. But it doesn’t matter. You’re here, that’s what matters. Your name’s Trott, you’ve told me that, you wanna tell me any more then great, but you don’t need to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“Some of them always used to call me Shadow… said it was cause I was the stealthiest,” Trott mumbles. “But I didn’t like it much.”

“Why?”

“Shadows don’t have names or faces or personalities,” Trott says, his voice very small. “They just belong to other people.”

“Pretty fucking unimaginative too,” Smith can’t help saying, but that seems to brighten Trott up. He turns bodily towards Smith, darting hesitant glances his way and fiddling with the dressing over his ear, ghost of a smile crossing his face.

“Would you rather me just cut if clean off and be done with it? I probably could. My dad had me running around bashing the heads of rats he’d poisoned when I was about three years old,” he says, chuckling quietly as he reminisces.

There’s no reply. Smith lets out a silent sigh. Part of him wants to just leave it, to let Trott be this shadow if he wants – but he can’t just give up, and barely knows why.

“So whereabouts did you live with your foster parents? Got any stories like my toddler rat killer one?” he asks. “Oh, I’ve got another great one about helping my dad shovel literal shit for a week, but you first.” 

For a moment he thinks Trott’s just gonna keep silent, and tries not to think about why that makes him feel something too close to desperation. But then he timidly looks up.

“LA… near the ocean. And…” he stops, tenses, then takes a slow breath, and the strings that have been pulling his muscles so taut seem to loosen. “And my foster dad didn’t like getting his hands dirty,” he says, mouth twitching. “Yet he took me in – both of them, Mum and Dad… they were the type of people you’d look at and you’d just know they were wealthy and successful. Like, literally the model idea of a working LA couple. They were… well – they were perfect.”

“Bet that must have been pretty different to my childhood in a tiny little rural village. You’re basically living in one massive film studio, everyone’s involved in the industry somehow, right?”

“Not even close,” Trott says, and smiles a bit. “Very English – that way of thinking, that everybody’s life is something out of a Hollywood movie. True, you’d see celebrities all the time, and the weather was great, but most people still worked regular jobs.”

“Still sounds way more exciting than rural England. American cities in general, there’s just so much more to experience. Tell me a story about your time growing up there,” he says on a whim. “It can be anything you want. Any pets you had, celebrity run-ins, times you got detention; all that fishing’s got me feeling nostalgic. I must’ve spoke enough to do your head in by now, it’s your turn.”

Trott’s gazing up at him like he thinks Smith’s said something shocking.

“Go on,” Smith urges. “Indulge me a bit. I know you want to hear my shit shovelling story.”

“You don’t have to listen, I don’t have nothin’ useful to tell you,” Trott mumbles, and Smith has to quickly read between the lines.

“When someone like me asks, it’s not like that, if I didn’t care I’d never ask in the first place,” he points out. “I’m curious. I really do want to hear. Go on, give me a good one.”

Trott’s quiet for a moment, and Smith turns his attention back to serene woodlands. When Trott does speak, it’s soft and tentative.

“Alright. I’m pretty bad at telling stories… but I guess this one’s kinda good. I was about… nine? Ten, maybe. I had some friends – this was back when I lived in Chicago – I had some buddies who I’d hang around with all the time.”

He trails off for a second, then shakes himself, continuing, “Real poor part of the city, lot’a streetwise kids, we all lived in the same apartment block in this pretty rough area… then one day there’s, like, a photoshoot, I guess? All these cameras and security and hipster assholes right outside our door, something about wanting to do a series of “getting real” shots, one of those assholes who flaunts their wealth on instagram, right?”

“Ah yes, the instagram-rich. They were the worst kind out there.”

“We thought they were gonna shoot a porno at first, which would’a been way more exciting,” Trott mumbles, and Smith lets out a startled laugh. The smaller man looks surprised by his reaction, momentarily, then seems to gain more confidence, sitting a little taller. “Anyway, me and my buddies were hanging around outside and these guys, they just tell us to move on cause we’re in the way. We refused cause, like, this is our neighbourhood, you don’t get to tell us what to do. And I guess these guys had enough braincells not to kick off against some youngsters in that type of place, so they say we can pet this guy’s monkey if we get outta the way.”

“What, is that a _euphemism_?” Smith exclaims.

“Nope,” Trott says, smirking, “It was a real monkey, like a little one with a long tail just chilling in this trailer thing they parked up. Lil’ guy was all dressed up in like a leather jacket and baseball cap, which was funny for a bit but then mostly sad, like when you looked in it’s eyes it just seemed miserable. So this security dude’s showing us this monkey, but then real drama kicks off between one of the production guys and the guy they’re shooting, yelling about him having an affair with his girlfriend, like something out of fucking TV – and the security guy shuts the monkey back up and leaves us. Now, us being the kids we were, what we decided we should do was liberate the monkey from his shit-head masters. It took a lot of coordination. Firstly, the trailer was locked, the only window out of eyes-view was this tiny one at the back, so one of the older boys started to work on it. And in the meantime, the rest of us were causing distractions for the security and crew, getting in their way, generally being noisy… if you’ve ever played Hitman, it was kinda like that. Felt so cool.”

“You all _sound_ fucking cool!” Smith exclaims, and for the first time since they’ve met, Trott gives him a full-on grin, eyes crinkling mischievously.

“Used to love that game, that and a game called Trials,” he says. “True masterpieces.”

“Ugh, that fucking game used to drive me insane. So after you all epically distracted this army of security, you managed to get into the trailer…?”

“Yep. I was the smallest so once he’d got it open I could just about squeeze through the window and get inside.” He’s speaking louder now, looks more animated than Smith’s ever seen him. “Christ, I’d never seen anything like it. Trailer must’ve cost more than our whole apartment block. Felt bigger than our whole apartment. Spotlessly clean, too, since I’m assuming he paid one of his entourage to pick up after him. So this monkey’s sat next to a bottle of champagne in the corner – and next to his couch he had this giant, like, aquarium. And in this aquarium sits this random octopus, suckered right onto the glass it was, and all along the bottom are these gold coins. And I go up and I see these coins were like proper eagle gold ones – can be worth hundreds – I weren’t smart enough to know if they were real or not, but even if they weren’t they looked realistic enough you could’a probably sold ‘em to some idiot.”

“I have a feeling I know where this is going,” Smith says, and is rewarded with another of Trott’s involuntary, squeaky little giggles. He glances at him, amused, but Trott barely even seems to notice, too wrapped up in his story.

“Yeah. I was like, I gotta get some for me and my buddies. No one’s gonna notice if a few go missing. Searched the place, trying to find something to grab ‘em with, cause fuck putting my hand in with that thing. And so I’m poking about and at one point I open this one cupboard which turns out to be a freezer… and then I hear this splashing sound and I turn… and the fucking octopus is literally climbing out of the tank…”

“ _Shit_ , dude.”

“Uh-huh. So I’m freaking out, like, I ain’t never even seen the ocean before and suddenly there’s this freaky looking alien thing coming right for me. So I start scrambling about this trailer, knocking shit over just trying to get out the way – climbed up onto a fucking table and nearly tipped the whole thing over – this octopus just kept sidling over whichever direction I went, happy as Larry, like it didn’t even care it wasn’t in water – until eventually I calmed down enough to think about what set if off in the first place and went back to check the freezer. Sure enough, saw there was a bunch of frozen seafood wrapped up so I got a load and chucked it onto the floor far away from me. Long story short, it worked, octopus seemed happy enough and I got, like, a good handful of these coins, shoved them into my pockets, only just remembered to grab the monkey, which thankfully didn’t seem to care, and I got outta there. Me and my buddies scarpered, hopped on the first bus we saw, and dropped the monkey off at these biker gang animal rescuer guys we knew – think it ended up at some zoo eventually, I dunno, never got to see him again, never had another photoshoot outside our door either. So… yeah…”

He cuts off abruptly, fidgets a bit, casting a couple of glances at Smith, something between hesitance and eagerness in his eyes, like he’s waiting for approval of his grand tale. 

“Well… that was not a story I was expecting to hear today. Or ever.” Smith has to admit. He’d half think the story’s fake had he heard it from anyone else and not from Trott, who he doesn’t think would finally build up the courage to speak at such length only to make up something so absurd.

“Uh-huh,” Trott says, and the Cheshire cat grin appears again. “Except when I delve into my pockets to show the others I realised I was an absolute idiot.”

“Why?”

“They weren’t gold coins.” His voice is thick, trying not to laugh. “They were fucking chocolate coins.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah! They’d all melted into my jeans and –”

“How the fuck could you mistake chocolate for real coins?”

“You should’ve seen the place!” Trott laughs. “Everything else was so lavish and over-the-top, it made perfect sense that he’d also use hundreds of dollars worth of coins as octopus house decor!

“But metal would be so much _heavier_!”

“What? I didn’t know that back then! I was just going by colour!”

“Jeez, and there’d be a line around the edge where the foil was! Did you somehow fail to notice that your coins were _wrapped_?” Smith argues. “Oh my God, this is simultaneously one of the coolest and stupidest fucking things I’ve heard in my entire life. Jesus Christ.”

“Look, in the heat of the moment I just assumed that if he was gonna put gold coins in the bottom of a tank with a scary looking octopus in it, it’d be because they were worth something!” Trott protests, so much so he starts coughing again. But even as he’s trying to catch his breath he keeps sneaking glances at Smith, who can’t help his warm grin. It’s stupid, yeah, but it’s _funny_ , and such a ridiculous fucking story, and a mistake that sounds so much like something _Ross_ would make, the sort of dumb error Smith would give him shit about for months.

“Your friends must’ve held that over you for ages,” he says, and mentally kicks himself when Trott’s smile wavers a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and looks away. “Yeah, they all found it pretty funny.”

His excitement seems to fade as his story finishes; he huddles into himself again and Smith can only stare. It feels… weird, to be hanging out like this, to be _laughing_ together, with everything that’s transpired. But for a moment, it felt like he caught a glimpse under Trott’s shell – for a moment, he seemed just like that daring little kid he described, young and wild and doing shit he knew could end badly for the thrill of it, taking pride in his ridiculous adventures. Someone with friends he trusts, and shares stories with. Someone who isn’t afraid to laugh out loud, to have fun without fear of making mistakes, without constantly studying other people’s moves so seriously.

It’s the total opposite of the kicked-puppy-faced, speak-only-when-spoken to, jump-at-everything Trott who’s hidden behind Smith when anyone else has approached even tiny _Bouphe._ He tries to accept it for what it is, but he can’t.

Trott himself almost seems in a sort of trance, almost in disbelief of how much he’s said and Smith realises, suddenly, that he’s now heard two very different versions of childhood. One in LA with these foster parents and another in Chicago with his – his mum? He assumes… 

“Hey, Trott.”

“Yeah?”

Smith looks him dead in the eye. “You’re pretty fucking good at telling stories, okay?”

Trott almost smiles. “Thank you.” His voice is hoarse now, a protest at the sudden overworking.

Smith pushes himself off the log and turns with a grin, saying, “C’mon then, we don’t wanna worry Lewis, I’ll tell you my shit story when we get back.” And Trott doesn’t hesitate to hop off after him.

* * *

Sips comes running to meet them before they make it back and from the look on his face it’s obvious there’s trouble ahead.

It’s dark for midday, the sky clouding as afternoon approaches. Trott’s been keeping close to his side, huddled under his hood.

“Oh, thank fuck, guys,” he breathes heavily, and Smith can tell immediately what he’s about to hit them with. “It’s here, fucking hundreds of them. C’mon, I threw a ladder down the back wall so you can get back in.”

Smith exchanges one quick glance with Trott, whose eyes are wide but not completely terrified, not yet, and he allows Smith to grab him by the arm, pulling them both into a run after Sips.

“Any more of those armoured ones?” Smith pants as they near the wall. He can hear now the shouts and the bangs and thuds and the _groans_.

_It’s fine. We’ll be fine. We’ve got through this countless times before._

“Well, I didn’t exactly stick around to find out, I came to get you the moment we spotted trouble, but not to my knowledge, no,” Sips replies.

They reach the ladder and Sips waits for them to climb first. Once up, he addresses them, all action now.

“Trott, Lewis wants you to stay with Hulmes in the house, you can keep an eye on him for us and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Trott darts a glance up, flickering between them.

Smith nods. He’s happy with that plan. “Yeah, Hulmes is cool, isn’t he? Lewis has the right idea, he definitely needs someone with more brains around – we’ll have enough on our hands without having to worry about him tearing down the walls again too. You can take him the fish we caught, he’ll tell you where to put them,” he tries to reassure, but Trott’s apparently having none of it; looks down, scuffs his feet against the wooden boards, shaking his head.

“I wanna stay with you,” he says, quietly.

From the corner of his eye Smith sees Sips’ eyebrows shoot up. To be honest, had it not been for the excited tale he’d heard from Trott mere minutes ago the sudden defiance might’ve surprised him also. But he likes to think he knows better than that now. And he can see it too, the embers of a fire not yet extinguished sparking up behind those eyes.

It strikes something in him, something that makes a deep, calm warmth spread through his chest. He smiles softly, and rests his hands on Trott’s shoulders, squeezing gently.

“Fuck yeah, you do. Why wouldn’t you want to stick by someone as awesome as me? But I need you to take care of Mark for me, like I told you, remember? When you’ve fucked up someone here’ll always have your back. I need you to be that someone for Mark, okay? It won’t be long, I promise, I’ll be back before you’ve even realised I’ve gone. You’ll be fine. You’re smart, strong, and from what you’ve told me, I think perhaps a little bit crazy, which is the optimum concoction in my humble opinion – hey,” he crouches down, meeting Trott’s gaze, and gives what he hopes is a smile of confidence, “Hey, you trust me, right?”

A pause.

Then Trott nods, biting his lip.

“Smith. We need to go,” Sips urges, and Smith stands tall again.

“You alright letting yourself in?” he checks. “Tell Mark you’re in charge until we get back.”

Trott smiles faintly. “M’kay.”

Smith gives him another grin. “Awesome.”

He doesn’t have time to say anything else, as Sips practically shoves him down the ladder. The sudden loss of the near constant presence these last few weeks rattles him than it should.

The others already appear to be in position, he can’t catch a glimpse of Ross anywhere. As they approach the main gate he spies Lydia and Bouphe heading out, all kitted up, weapons brandished, can spot the shambling figures of the biters before the gate shuts again, feels his heart beat harder in his chest the closer they get to the action - everything’s happening so fast he doesn’t quite know where he’s at.

_You’ve got this. You can do this. You_ have _to do this_.

Doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s going to throw up when they get closer and closer to the horde until all that separates them and the wall of the dead is a few feet of wood. It’s like there’s heavy stones in the pit of his stomach, and it’s with great effort that he keeps his breathing steady.

Waiting for them, Lewis drums his fingers against his shield. Looks like he’s heading out today as well.

“Sips,” he barks. “Get fucking shooting.”

“On it, shit head,” is Sips’ eloquent response to that, climbing the ladder, crossbow at the ready.

_Now for my orders_ , Smith thinks, clenching his fists into his sides. _C’mon, take fucking charge! You promised Trott you’d look out for him and now you’ve got the chance to do just that._ There’s no way he’s gonna let that fishing trip be their last one.

“Where’s my fucking armour then?” Smith asks, looking around.

“ _What_?”

“Let me go out, Lewis. It’s been a while,” he informs him. Lewis’ face goes a little harder. “I want to be out there, with Ross. We’ll take this shit on together.”

Lewis simply shakes his head with a slight frown.

“Not today. I need you up on the walls, surveillance, giving call outs.”

A wave of frustration rushes over Smith. He throws up his hands.

“It’s bloody day time, everybody can see fine! You don’t need me up there! Sips has got it covered! Or at least send someone up who’s got better accuracy than me. More important to get me out doing the heavy hitting.”

“You’re the best guy for giving people intel –”

“But it’s been ages since I went out, I can’t remember the last time, and I’ve got better, Kim said I’d improved loads last time we trained, how else am I supposed to further learn if I don’t get a chance to –”

“ _Smith_.” And fucking _hell_ the look on Lewis’ face is one that absolutely reads _final warning,_ Smith almost has to take a step back from the shock – that's not a face he ever remembers seeing on Lewis before. It feels _wrong_. “I _need_ you on the walls. Is that _clear_?”

Smith swallows. A horrible bitterness rising up in his chest. He wants to shout out, to punch something really hard. What can he say? Refuse direct orders from the man he respects and trusts because he’s being _selfish_? That’s what he’s being, yeah – because he’s not as quick as Kim, not as strong as Ravs, not as intuitive as Tom, not as _good_ as Ross.

He can’t think of a reply, so he decides not to give one – turning silently to join Sips on the wall instead. He sees Lewis glance at him, but he doesn’t push it, even when his vision swims and his nose starts twitching – everything feels out of focus, as he clambers up the remaining rungs, it’s there again.

It’s always been _fucking_ there – awful. _Horrific_. What the fuck is it? He feels like he should know. He _knows_ he should know. He should _remember_.

_There’s something wrong. Something wrong with… something’s not right with you._

_It’s –_

In the chaos of his mind, somehow, from somewhere, a tale from earlier pops back in. And in this dry summer heat, in the middle of the countryside, with his hands clammy and legs shaking, with the view of hundreds biters a mere few seconds away… He thinks of a small boy in a big city,causing mayhem with his friends, sneaking into a trailer, getting chased by a fucking octopus, and a short breath of laughter escapes his lips. It’s not much, but it gives him enough time to quickly regather his thoughts. Slap himself into action. Into the now.

_Calm down. You’re good. It’s nothing. It’s those biters. They fucking stink. You would too if you’d been rotting away in this heat. You got this._

He has to, he thinks, as he heaves himself up to the top, once again staring into the face of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo sorry for the long break guys! Covids a bitch, right? Hope everybody's staying safe in these hard times <3


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